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PERDITA 



AND 
OTHER 



POEMS 



BY ,. 

CHARLES J. BAYNE 



COLE 


BOOK 


COMPANY 


A T L A 


N T A : : 


GEORGIA 


1 


9 


5 



Copyright, 1905, by Cole Book Company. 



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COPY B. 



Press of Foote & Davies Co., Atlanta, Ga. 



Contents 



Page 

Perdita I 

Trovato 1 1 

Wed 13 

Unfulfilled l6 

Vivien 1 8 

A Fantasy 20 

Dead Fadette 23 

Hygeia of the Wards 25 

Towards the Deep 27 

Artiste 29 

Be Thou "Kathleen" 31 

Her Frown 33 

"There Are Other Eyes in Spain" 34 

A Song of Lost Loves 36 

A Dirge 38 

Val d'Arno ' 40 

Venetian Memories 41 

The Scorn of the Sky 43 



rage 

Twin But Twain 45 

Afloat 47 

The Feast of Fools 49 

The Nun 51 

"Thou Shalt Not Walk Alone" 53 

A Woeful Ballad of After Days 54 

Our Ways 57 

lltulertones 58 

Measures 60 

"When I Kissed Your Tears Away" 61 

Love's Afterwhile 63 

Her Heart 65 

Entombed 66 

After the Strife 67 

A Sonp; and a Sigh 69 

La Belle Concierjuc 70 

"Make Her Thus Fair" 72 

"String: Me the Strands" 73 

Carpe Diem 74 

"We Love Again" 76 

Love at Noon 77 

"Therefore I Call You Mine" 79 

The Charm Eternal 81 

The Autumn Gale 83 

On Neho 85 

In Tenebris 87 



The Groom's Toast 88 

Christopher Marlowe 90 

Resurrection 91 

Towards Sodom 92 

" 'Twixt Longing and Alarm" 93 

The Alps 94 

"Rest Here, My Pilgrim Heart" 96 

Margery Blair 98 

Repentance 99 

To Angelica, In the Canaries 100 

Crucita 102 

Cuba 103 

Restored 105 

Leo XITT i()^> 

"My Sea" 108 

Once More i 10 

"Spring Is Winter's Warning" 112 

In Silence i 13 

The (lolden Wedding 114 

^riie Platonists I 16 

Discontent 117 

Sarah In Town i 18 

Her Married Name 120 

"These Dog-Eared Books" 122 

My Ships 124 

Bas Bleu t2'5 



Page 

Song of the July Fly 127 

"She Whom I Loved Is Dead" 129 

The Parson 13^ 

The Pettifogger 141 



Acknowledgment. 



For the privilege of reproducing those poems in the present col- 
lection which have previously appeared in various periodicals, the 
thanks of the author are extended to the respective editors of The 
Atlantic, The Century, The Bookman, The Cosmopolitan, The 
Independent, Harper's Bazar, Puck, fVomans Home Companion, 
Leslie's Monthly Magazine, New Idea Woman's Magazine, and 
The New Orleans Times-Democrat. 



Perdita 



As JOCUND June laughs down the year, 
And poises, pensive, on her wing 

To catch the perfumed atmosphere 
Left by the funeral flowers of Spring, 

Her spirit sobered to deplore 

That something lovely is no more; 

So, with ingenuous joy he sees 

The feathering fern, the reddening rose, 
Takes tribute from the free-born breeze 

And thrills with evening's varying glows, 
Until from joy's own wild excess 
His heart recalls its one distress. 

For Spring is but a mocker now, 

And wears her livery of green 
Like laurels on starved genius' brow. 

Or lilies 'round a libertine. 
The flowering almond is her wand. 
But only spectres will respond. 

When last she rose, swift charioteer. 
And at her morning gate unreined 
The triple skylarks of the year 



To sweep through cloud-drifts unrestrained, 
He watched her with a soul as light 
As her own arch and airy flight. 

For then within his heart there dwelt 
A Spring as green as now 'tis gray. 

With fond affinity he felt 

The warmth of every cunning ray 

Which limned on leaf and wave and cloud 

The face so loved — and disallowed. 

But all is changed ! As some fair child 
Which gives the bride a name more blest, 

But with a fondness over-wild 
Is stifled on its mother's breast. 

Thus over-cherished Hope has died. 

And Love sits sobbing at its side. 

How changed indeed ! No longer floats 
From nature's morning minstrelsy 

The awakening hymn, but measured notes 
From leaf-luxuriant vine and tree 

Seem blending in the sad refrain 

That Hope can never live again. 

Be ye of those who feel? — whose eyes. 
By passion purged, can pierce the scroll 

Where old delirium underlies 

That o'er-writ palimpsest, the soul? — 

Can peer through glamour into gloom — 

Through kindly roses to the tomb 



? 

2 



Be ye of those whose broader range 
Of mind and soul has sadly taught 

That change can never quite estrange, 
Nor wisdom bind rebellious thought? — 

That social cities are but grown 

From those who dare not be alone? 

For only those do I rehearse 

His tale of tenderness and tears. 
To meaner minds the throbbing verse 

Were but a jingle for their jeers. 
This is his miserere, wrung 
From heart-strings too intensely strung. 

For his were feelings finely wrought, 
And his were passions dark and deep. 

Though they had found the calm they sought. 
Like waves which war themselves asleep: 

Whate'er the wrecks below, his breast 

Had been, though rudely, rocked to rest. 

How sweet that period of repose! 

He saw the world with other eyes ; 
Watched every softer charm unclose. 

And asked his heart, with strange surprise, 
How could it vex itself a-sea 
When coves and calms like this might be. 

But ah ! just o'er his hillside home 

A storm-blown curlew came one day. 
Its white wings flecked blue heaven like foam, 



And filled the air with ocean's spray. 
Old instincts quickened ; the drowsy lea 
Waked to the shout: "The sea! the sea!" 

The ardor of forgotten years 

Swept back, and so intensified 
That earlier fancies seemed but seers, 

And this the love they prophesied. 
The sacred book seemed now unsealed 
Which youth's Apocal3^pse revealed. 

She rose before his ravished eyes 

Like some far landscape, calm and fair, 

Disclosed against the midnight skies 
By lightning's unexpected glare. 

With pulseless heart he stood and gazed, 

At once enraptured and amazed. 

She seemed the very self of grace 
Made manifest in womanhood ; 

The type of some intended race 

Withdrawn because the world was rude; 

A soul which stooped to pose in clay 

For some ideal swept away. 

The stately rhythm with which she stepped, 
Where'er her footsteps led, was such 

As if unconsciously she kept 
Responsive time to every touch 

Of rustling folds which first expressed 

Their rapture o'er the form caressed. 



Her voice ? Perhaps Prometheus, freed, 
Had filched it from the heaven of sound, 

Or Pan bequeathed his mellow reed 
To speak a languaj2;e more profound. 

It was a mortal note to chords 

Which immortality affords. 

A Parian chalice was her cheek, 

Through which the warm blood blushed like wine; 
And could some lordly lips bespeak 

One draught so rich from Autumn's vine, 
The heart it cheered would gladly pour 
Red drop for drop to purchase more. 

The depth of her expressive eyes 

Seemed meant to shame the pride of speech. 
Her smiles made wisdom seem less wise 

For all it could not hope to teach. 
Her breast, in its own strength secure, 
1 hough earthly warm, was heavenly pure. 

The night beheld her darker hair, 

The brighter gems which there she wore, 

Then snuffed its stars with angry air 
And crimsoned into day once more. 

She was the all of love distilled. 

The heart's forefancied dream fulfilled. 

And when they two stood face to face 

'Twas not as strangers, but with eyes 
Which seemed endeavoring to retrace, 



With vague misgivings and surprise, 
Features once held supremely dear, 
But lost in some remoter sphere. 

For them no slow and courtly arts, 
But conscious kinship, more intense 

For all the years their yearning hearts 
Had felt the lone and subtle sense 

Of some perfecting part denied. 

Which fate, in pity, now supplied. 

Ah! happier pair than they who sowed 

Young earth with thorns! their love so pure 

Was sin against man's flippant code, 

And, lashed by hands which failed to lure. 

These left the world behind, and felt 

That it was Eden where they dwelt. 

An Eden ? Yes, but even here. 
In this new garden where the soul 

Heard not the voice of God with fear, 
A deadlier than the serpent stole. 

And they who walked with hearts elate 

Yet glimpsed the skulking form of Fate. 

They read the portent well, and knew 
The cup which held the evening's wine 

Must hold the morning's tears ; that through 
Their thatch the stars must shortly shine. 

"But this," they said, "is love's own day, 

So be to-morrow what it may. " 



Their passion but intensified 

That they so soon must meet no more, 
As currents which would calmly glide, 

If smooth their bed and broad their shore, 
But dash with swift, impetuous shocks 
Between the channel's narrowing rocks. 

The focused frenzy of their bliss, 

In those brief, wind-winged days, outburned 
Linked years where each complacent kiss 

With lazy dalliance is returned ; 
'Twas as the attar drop, which yields 
The perfume of imprisoned fields. 

And worthy was the ground where sprang 

Their fresh Tilphossa of delight; 
The birds, how soulfully they sang! 

How deeply shone the stars of night! 
There sympathy became a scene, 
And feeling clothed itself in green. 

The columned mansion where she dwelt 
With towering oaks was sentried 'round — 

A grove where Druids might have knelt 
And deemed their ancient rites refound. 

Cool walks which wound through tangled flowers 

Led shy love to inviting bowers. 

Through twining boughs their love-bright eyes 

Caught here and there a glimpse of heaven, 
As though the blue but faithless skies 



To hope a taunting sign had given, 
And night had lent each shimmering star 
To make the spirit sigh, "How far!" 

Beyond, a meadow, mild and green, 

Declined reluctantly away. 
As loath to leave the favored scene 

Where her light steps were wont to stray, 
Melting in graceful lines until 
Its grief became a tearful rill. 

Beside the purling stream grew wild 
A myriad flowers to cheer its flow, 

And there the droning bees beguiled 
Despairing hearts to steep their woe. 

All, all conspired to feed the fires 

Which brightlier burn as hope expires. 

Each day the lovers and the dawn 
Kept triple tryst, with face aglow 

That night's dark arras was withdrawn; 
Then heart met heart with mingling flow 

As in his warm, exulting arms 

He clasped her rich and rounded charms. 

They wandered through all solitudes 
Of sun and shade — to both allied 

By introspection's varying moods — 
Affection bidding them abide 

Where sportive sunbeams scampered down 

To tinge the teeming fields with brown; 

8 



And then, the undertrend of doom, 
Recalling all they soon must bear, 

tJntil the woodland's sober gloom 
More fitly harbored their despair. 

Through all, the strings so deeply mute 

Declared how sweet liad been the lute. 

With large-eyed look, the native speech 
Of tenderness too deeply wrought 

For weakling words to ever reach. 

They shared each changing swell of thought, 

Or mused upon the westering sun 

Until the hope-like day was done. 

Then when the welcome night came down. 
And perfumes filled the freshening air, 

She kissed his troubled brow of brown. 
Shook out the curtains of her hair 

And wooed him, on her warm, white breast. 

With heaving lullabies, to rest. 

At last it came — the parting hour — 
The hour of passion and of pain, 

To sear and sanctify the bower 

Where bliss could never bloom again. 

Their mad hearts throbbed, their dim eyes filled 

With dews which sorrow's night distilled. 

One wild embrace, as like to crush 

What life their crushed-out hope had left, 
A stifled sob, a tenser hush — 



'Twas done. — They took the tangled weft 
False Fancy wove and made a shroud 
For Peace. — Then morning and the crowd. 

They who behold them say they smile; 

'Tis but a parting of the lips 
Which with their feelings reconcile 

As idle seaweed unto ships. 
'Tis but the phosphorescence shed 
Above the mute and moldering dead. 

They who behold them say the rose 
Upon their cheeks is still a-blush. 

Alas ! the world too rarely knows 
The healthy from the hectic flush. 

They laugh, but 'tis a maniac mirth 

Which in distracted hearts has birth. 

But if ye be of those whose range 
Of mind and soul has sadly taught 

That change can never quite estrange 
Nor wisdom bind rebellious thought, 

Ye know why all the warmth of May 

Still leaves the lichened grave-stone gray. 



lO 



Trovato 



Is IT but the idle fancy 

Of a mocking necromancy 
That together, leaf and blossom, by the Indus once we grew, 

And that Hafiz came, or Omar, 

To imprison the aroma 
In some half-remembered measure which has rhythmed me to you ? 

Is it false or is it real 

That, in ages more ideal, 
I was song and you were Sappho; you were sunbeam, I the dew? 

For I long have felt the burgeon 

Of a passion, vague and virgin, 
Which you quicken to remembrance of a former life we knew. 

Were you stream when I was willow? 

Was I shell when you were billow? 
For your voice has ever echoed through the hushes of my heart; 

And it seems, as I behold you, 

That the very air foretold you 
By the fragrance which, in welcome, all the budding boughs Impart. 

But at last I stand beside you, 
And the fate which long denied you 
Yields, in recompense, a dearer incarnation than my dream. 



What I sought to what you are, Love, 
Was as twilight to the star, Love, 
As the languor is to summer, as the murmur to the stream. 

And since age on age has perished 

But to bring the soul I cherished. 
Wherein thought and feeling, blended, are as petal and perfume, 

Let us linger here forever. 

Where the pride of all endeavor 
Is a fervor which to passion is as glamour unto gloom. 

Yet, if Fate reserves its malice 

But to break the lifted chalice, 
Let me mingle with the elements, where once I was a part; 

Then, on some supernal morning 

Which your beauty is adorning. 
As a dewdrop in a lily, I may nestle in your heart. 



12 



Wed 



The lights of yesternight are out, 
And their extinguished ray 

Has left a deeper gloom to flout 
The scene which once was gay. 

The wine-sprent board, the shattered f 

Bespeak the cheer of vanished hours. 

The kiss is cold upon the lips 

Which swore a treacherous troth; 

The honeyed cup's deceptive sips 
Are now a tasteless froth. 

The tripping measures now are mute: 

The worm is feeding on the fruit. 

But in our lives a lonelier waste 
And darker night succeed ; 

The flowering hope that hour effaced 
Is now a withered weed. 

The cup which held our votive wine, 

Alas ! lies shattered at the shrine. 

They who have never seen the light 

Are but one-half so blind 
As those whose overdazzled sight 

13 



Has left its gloom behind. 
The heart whose feelings once were fond 
Alone is tensioned to despond. 

The glittering round of pledge and jest 
Needs must have wrung tiiy soul, 

When Memory, that unbidden guest, 
Pushed by, untouched, his bowl. 

And with his sad, reproachful gaze 

Called back the truth of other days. 

For, though thy heart feel vaguely void, 
Uncrushed lies many a seed. 

And love will linger undestroyed — 
Just bruised enough to bleed ; 

The dreams thus temporized to rest 

Will scorn a burial so unblest. 

Within that warm and roseate room 
'Tis well that all shone bright. 

For, shamed to see thee thus assume 
The meaning veil of white, 

The moon's once soft, approving rays 

Were shadowed in a deepening haze. 

Ah ! yes, 'tis well, for that one hour 

Of splendor and of pride 
Must weigh against the crushing power 

Of years unsanctified. 
The vows which gave our love the lie 
Have wrought a tether, not a tie. 



And when his lips shall claim their right, 
And when his arms shall twine 

The form which glowed, that parting night, 
Responsively to mine, 

Beware lest he, poor fool, should know 

Wherefore thy bosom trembles so. 

Beware lest sleep should lead thee back 

To some familiar scene 
Where love has left its truant track, 

And former fields are green ; 
For thou must " murder sleep," lest he. 
Unsleeping, hear, and murder thee. 

When infant cheeks shall press thine own, 

And wake one hallowed flame, 
How poorly will that love atone 

For all he could not claim! 
Yet warmlier nurse thine Alpen-rose 
Because it flowered amid the snows. 

Down with the pandering creeds which hold 

Affection's holier law 
Subaltern to the bonds which gold 

And ritual rote may draw! 
Down with the mockers who declare 
The incense purer than the prayer! 

I liold a higher creed, which scorns 

The tinsel ties of lust ; 
Which neither wealth nor power suborns — 

A scale forever just. 
Belshazzar, too, with heathen fume 
Steeped Judah's vessels. Read thy doom! 



Unfulfilled 



My soul is silent now ; 

The voice of f:;rief is weak ; 
But such as Sinai's hurninp; brow 

Once heard, it yet shall speak. 

What then the Prophet saw 
Was those convulsive throes 

When nature first ^ave birth to law, 
And love's dominion rose. 

But when it speaks again — 

This Sinai of my soul — 
In wrath at love and law's disdain 

Its thunder-bursts shall roll. 

My grief shall find a tongue, — 
Not in my brooding breast, 

But in thine own, by conscience stimg, 
My wrongs shall be confessed. 

Responsive passions prove 
'llie (lodhood of the heart; 

Alliance is the law of love — 
And yet we dwell apart. 

i6 



Sea-trothed the rivers roll ; 

The ring-doves coo to mate ; 
Then can it be that soul from soul 

Should part — and call it Fate? 

You bade me ^o — I go ; 
Nor envy him the kiss 

Thy cold and loveless lips bestow- 
In mockery of bliss. 

Be his the Judas brand, 

Though 'tis thyself thus sold ; 

The jeweled Jura of thy hand 
Will glitter, though so cold. 

Be mine, through coming years, 
The memory of that hour 

The dearer diamonds of thy tears 
Confessed affection's power. 

Be his the loveless tie; 

Though tieless, love was mine. 
The watered lees may liquefy, 

But never can be wine. 



17 



Vivien 



When twittering swallows sweep the skies, 

And deep-wood doves are cooing ; 
When every breeze from flowered leas 
Is drowsy with the drone of bees 

And sweets of sunny brewing, 
The happy-hearted say, " How fair ! " 

" 'Tis May-time ! " sing the mated ; 
But Vivien, Vivien, luster-eyed. 
My Vivien, long denied, 
'Tis yours to bring the breath of spring 

For which my soul has waited. 

When sunset sobers into gloom. 

And gloom to moonlight mellows ; 
When Hesper pales, and nightingales 
From leafy knolls and lonely vales 

Are calling to their fellows. 
The overwearied sigh, " Repose ! " 

With dreams their sorrows lighten ; 
But Vivien, Vivien, hazel-haired, 
My Vivien, long despaired, 
'Tis yours alone, with touch and tone. 

My night to calm and brighten. 



t8 



When Memory, from her loom of light, 

Wove out her fairest fancies. 
Where hope could trace that tender grace 
Which, God-like, quickens form and face. 

And, mortal-like, entrances, 
"How constant to ideals," I mused, 

"Are mind's inconstant creatures!" 
But Vivien, Vivien, heaven-exiled. 
My Vivien, earth-beguiled, 
I could not guess that each impress 

But wore thy destined features. 

When Spring is in the crimpled leaf. 

And moonlight melts to morning — 
When Memory veins with somber grains 
The beauty of her woven skeins, 

And hope is half a warning, 
Grief, on her tear-drop rosary, 

Tells off the mocking hours ; 
But if, my Vivien, love unfold 
Its petaled heart of gold, 
The brown old earth shall bud with mirth 

And life shall laugh with flowers. 



19 



A Fantasy 



On a time, when I was yet her halting claimant, 

And debated what we may not understand, 

I beheld her, as she stood in scarlet raiment — 

A lily in her hand. 

She had come as if she vaguely thought of veiling 

Half the splendor of her beauty in the gloom 
Which had gathered while the ember light was failing 
Within a lonely room. 

How the darkly rich apparel softly folded 

All her sinuous young form in its embrace ! 
But the lily, in a hand divinely molded, 

Leaned lightly to her face. 

Even whiter than the lily were her eye-lids, 

Yet her eyes were dark as passion, when upturned, 
As if underneath those wavering and shy lids 
A tropic ardor burned — 

Burned the fervor of all sleeping, mad desires — 

All the languor of a luscious Asian June, 
When the earth is faint with Summer's ripening fires 
And seems awhile to swoon. 



Down her forehead rolled, in elemental wildness, 

Trailinf]; cloud-racks from the tempest of her hair, 
Undemeath which, like a moon-rift, shone in mildness 
A brow-line pearly fair. 

Thus she came, and thus she spake — in words unuttered 

Spake with budding lips that blossomed not in speech: 
"Look upon me! I am fair! The bird has fluttered, 
And rests within your reach. 

"Look upon me! I am fair! and in my raiment 

You have seen the outward symbol of my soul ; 
All the passion that is pulsing for a claimant 
Will leap to your control! 

"But upon my breast I hold this fragile lily; 

You shall crush it in the fervent first embrace ; 
Then whatever else go well with us or illy, 
Its petals die apace." 

In the twilight room I left her with her lily, 

But the vexing vision sought me in my dream. 
God ! which is it, when the night is wan and stilly — 
Things are, or only seem? 

Once again she stood before me ; but a vesture 

Of white samite floated 'round her like a cloud; 
Utter passiveness of feature, form, and gesture 
All passion disavowed. 



Not a zephyr of the tempest now was stirring 

Where her raven hair was braided on her brow; 
Not a hint of hidden mystery was blurring 
The eyes upon me now. 

But the lily, late imperiled as a warder 

Between her and my rapturous embrace — 
It had vanished ; and a poppy, red with ardor, 
Was flaming in its place. 



22 



Dead Fadette 



Ah, me, but the mold is damp and cold. 

And close is the dwelling place 
Which the faithful few who saw me through 

Have assigned in Pere la Chaise! 
And the wavy hair, which was all too fair, 

Uncurls down over my face. 

Does the restless tide of the world outside 

Roll by with the old-time swell? 
Do the lights still blaze in the gay cafes. 

And the mirth run 'round as well 
As if there were yet no dead Fadette? 

Is it bright on Sa'n' Michel? 

It seems that I hear small grass roots near, 
As they break through the crusted loam; 

Can it be so long since I left the throng 
Where the midnight beakers foam, 

As the chansons rise to the waking skies 
From beneath the Pantheon's dome? 

I know not the hours this long night devours! 

Has the butterfly burst his cell? 
Do the gardens glow with the blooms that blow 

23 



In the beds I knew so well ? 
Or the cold rains beat on the glistening street? — 
Is it bright on Sa'n' Michel? 

Poor, pretty Fadette ! Her cheeks are wet, 

But not with the April tears, 
Ever ready to rise in her bright, blue eyes, 

In the volatile by-gone years! 
Have they all forgot that her eyes shine not, 

And her form no more appears? 

Ho, Ganj^mede, there, with mincing air. 

Some wine, of the rich Moselle! 
Rape the dustiest bins! — Friends, here's to our sins! 

And the sins of our friends as well! 
Now a hearty " Toujours vive la joie, vive I'amour !' 

Make it bright on Sa'n' Michel! 

Ah, no ! I but dream, for the lights that gleam 
Are those that the grave damps shed; 

Nevermore can wine send a thrill divine 
Through the veins whose warmth has fled. 

In a last embrace, here in Pere la Chaise, 
Poor, pretty Fadette is dead! 

And this is the wage which saint and sage 

So futilely still foretell 
For the sun-bright soul which defies control. 

Laughing rosily on to dwell 
Where the feverish race leads to Pere la Chaise 

From the lights of Sa'n' Michel. 

24 



Hygeia of the Wards 



When the shapes which pain paints dark on the brain 

Scowl back from the casement square — 
When the gargoyles peer with a bleary leer, 
And the black bats float through the air, 
My warder with the soft, cool hands, 

As you sit serenely by. 
With a look that understands, 
How brightly real is your eye I 

When Caliban sprawls on the crawling walls, 

Enwreathed with a garland of girls, 
And the sea-weed, pied with eyes that have died, 
Sweeps by on the tide of their curls. 
My watcher with the calm, fair face. 

Making ever my care your care, 
There breathes a wholesome grace 

From the waves of your nut-brown hair. 

When into the ear which needs must hear, 

With iterant, iterant fall, 
All the long night through doth still pursue 
The fantasy's whispered call, 
Hygeia of the footfall soft, 

Who comes, and the wards rejoice. 
Hale winds from the wood and croft 
Are stirred by your morning voice. 

25 



When the treacherous edge of the beetling ledge 

Crumbles off, and the senses swim, 
As the winds sweep by with a shriek and cry 
From the depths that are cold and dim, 
As you sit at the cot-side there, 

With a finger-touch firm and sure, 
I am snatched from the eddying air 
To the footing that is broad and secure. 

When the days of peace shall bring release. 

And the grotesque walls are bare, 
One trace of pain I shall yet retain 
Of the coverlid land of care; 

And ever when the torn feet bleed, 

In what land soever they fare, 
IVIy heart shall turn in its need 

To the hands that healed me there. 



26 



Towards the Deep 



Let the lilies flaunt their graces, 

Since the golden hearts which bide 
In the folded buds' embraces 
Will adorn a richer tide. 
Statelier swans will sweep the lake 
When the cygnets quit the brake 
Where the Undines lave their faces, 
Unespied. 

More melodious Junes are sleeping 
In the lingering linnet's throat. 
And a richer dawn is peeping 

Where the sunset aureoles float; 
When the plaintive minor dies 
All the grand crescendos rise, 
Deeper rapture onward sweeping, 
Note by note. 

And, as Sulla's rebel minion 

Vaunted more the rising sun, 
Love may turn on listless pinion 
When the zenith well is won. 
Spelled by some diviner glow 
Which affection yet may know. 
Since through even hearts Hercynian 
Danubes run. 

27 



Hence I wait till, through the hushes 

Which thy latent passions keep, 
Like some rosy dream that blushes 
On the russet bough of sleep, 
Love shall leap and greet my own 
With an ardor yet unknown. 
As the deep-born river rushes 
Towards the deep. 



28 



Artiste 



When April pipes her pastoral note, 

And all the daisies dance, 
You catch the fairy festival 

And fix the green expanse ; 
When Memory pipes the Graces down 
In their elusive guise, 
They all assume 
Your shape and bloom, 
And dartle with your eyes. 

When Summer drowses into dreams, 

And, dreaming, laughs in flowers, 
You hold the riches of her prime 

Against the brigand hours ; 
WTien Fancy, steeped in slumber, yields 
Some echoes of your voice. 
Beyond the spell 
Those echoes dwell. 
And bid me still rejoice. 

When Autumn, from her russet locks, 
Shakes dapples brown and bright, 

You garner shadows into sheaves 
And bind them with the light ; 

When Fortune, from her checkered store, 

29 



Dispenses joy and care, 

Through you I find 

A hope to bind 
The gleanings of despair. 

When through old Winter's tattered cowl 

His snowy tonsure peers, 
The glory 'round his dying brow 

You give to future years. 
So, when life's withered joys reveal 
The cheerless waste below, 
Your vanished face 
Bequeaths its grace 
Through Memory's golden glow. 



30 



Be Thou "Kathleen" 



Angkls enough Heaven holds in its glory, 

Far ofF, unseen: 
Come, sweeten earth and make life a new story; — 
Be thou "Kathleen!" 
Though many mansions rise 
Radiant in Paradise, 
Though happy flowers blow 
Where the cool waters flow, 

Be thou "Kathleen!" 

Not in the fictional fashion of fairy-land, 

Not as a queen. 
Not, baladora-like, treading a saraband, — 

Come as "Kathleen," 
Angel, queen, fay thou art, 
Yet to this clay thou art 
Dearer when nearer, and 
I by your side may stand ; 

Be thou "Kathleen!" 

Leave to more shallow hearts moods that are airier; 

Wear in thy mien 
Gentle assurance that never a barrier 

Barrcth Kathleen. 



Then shall my heart, aflame 
With that enkindling name, 
Say, " Thou, my best employ. 
And thou, my dearest joy. 

Be thou Kathleen!" 

Time will not stay, — alas! see how the winged years 

Pass as the sheen 
Glints o'er the meadow-lands where wave the ripened ears- 
Be thou "Kathleen!" 
Into these seeing eyes — 
Where now the tears arise — 
Soon dusty death must be 
Blown from Life's arid lea ; 

Be thou "Kathleen!" 



32 



Her Frown 



There is magic in the music when the fountains of her mirth 
Into h'quid waves of laughter ripple down ; 
And her eyes a deeper rapture 
In their dreamy moments capture, 
But I cherish most her features archly gathered in a frown. 

In the masquerade of faces desolation wears a smile, 
While the gravest in demeanor is the clown ; 

But I know that in revealing 

Every transient thought and feeling 
She is nearest when her forehead sweetly furrows with a frown. 

In her eyes there gleams a splendor which no shadows can subdue, 
Like the glint upon the waving fields of brown ; 
As the glowing embers mingle 
With the ashes on the ingle. 
Glows her soul among the thoughts which gravely wait upon 

her frown. 

All the shifting lights and shadows which her April eyes assume 
Wear a charm of which this aspect is the crown ; 

And if she could guess the ardor 

Of my thoughts as I regard her, 
How I wonder would her features coldly gather in a frown ! 

33 



"There Are Other Eyes in Spain" 



There are other eyes in Spain, — 
Dark and dazzling eyes, Crucita, 

Rosebud lips which wait the rain 
Like the harvest for Demeter. 

Do not distance with disdain: 

There are other eyes in Spain. 

Thou art fashioned in a mold 
Of the most sj^mmetric graces ; 

Thy brown beauty is extolled 
As alone the fairest face is. 

But how foolish to be vain ! 

There are other ej'es in Spain. 

There is music in the tone 
Of thy syllables, and silence. 

With a sweetness all its own, 
Compensates for words' exilence. 

But in pride be this thy strain : 

There are other eyes in Spain. 

I have loved thee; yea, perhaps 
There is still a tender feeling; 

34 



But beware the cold relapse 

Of a long neglected kneeling. 
Love will spread its wings again: 
There are other eyes in Spain. 



35 



A Song of Lost Loves 



Trinita, Crucita, Anita — 

Through the gathering mist of the years, 
With the infinite graces of dimpled, brown faces, 

How roguishly each of you peers! 
Have I not said, "Get thee behind me!" 

And long since forgotten the roll — 
Trinita, Crucita, Anita — 

Of the liquids which captured my soul? 

Trinita, Crucita, Anita — 

Why, the day of our passion is dead. 
My thoughts must not waver from themes that are graver 

Than busied my idle young head. 
Yet there, like a trio of Dryads 

Half hid in a trellis, you smile — 
Trinita, Crucita, Anita — 

With lips that were made to beguile. 

Now, know you not, truant Trinita — 

Soft sylph whose delight is to lave 
Where the warm Caribbean sings ever a paean 

Of praise as j^ou mount on the wave — 
That time has brought Marys and Sarahs, 

And many more home-like in sound 

36 



Than Trinita, Crucita, Anita, 
However the liquids abound? 

And know you not, cruel Crucita — 

Who quickened my heart to a flame, 
Like some sulphurous crater beneath the equator 

In far Ecuador, whence you came. 
That the years on their wings have brought healing — 

Spelled Helen, perchance, who is fair, 
Trinita, Crucita, Anita, 

With not a dark strand in her hair? 

And you so much earlier and sweeter 

That your name I enmask in my rhymes; 
You know that love varies, though toward the Canaries 

I once worshiped, vespers and primes. 
No more of that wreathing with roses 

Those glossy black ringlets, for thine, 
(With those of Trinita, Crucita!), 

Have sprinkled the silver in mine. 

Trinita, Crucita, Anita ! 

Even now I grow weak in my will; 
Were all of you Circes whose kisses were curses 

I know I should welcome you still ; 
For under those languorous lashes. 

And in every dimple's soft mold — 
Trinita, Crucita, Anita — 

The dreams of my youth I behold. 



37 



A Dirge 



Old^ old, old as the records of birth 

Is thy story, O Death! 
Cold, cold, cold as when, first-born of earth, 

Abel tasted thy breath! 
Yet solace has never a psalm 
And Gilead never a balm 

All thy sorrows to calm. 

Fold, fold, fold o'er her tenantless breast 

Snowy vestments, O Tomb! 
Tolled, tolled, tolled be the bells for the rest 

Of her soul in its bloom! 
Lo ! all the processional years. 
As they file down the highway of tears, 

Bring her voice to our ears. 



Flown, flown, flown on the wing of the Spring, 

From the portal of June! 
Blown, blown, blown ere the Summer could bring 

The year's dial to noon! 
And with her a glory has fled 
As if the sear roses had said, 

" Let us die; she is dead!" 

38 



Moan, moan, moan with the Winter's unrest, 

Wind of sea and of shore! 
Lone, lone, lone we who loved her the best, 

And can now but deplore! 
No lonelier lieth she there 
Where dust, fashioned ever so fair. 

Unto dust must repair! 

Old, old, old as the records of birth 

Is thy story, O Death ! 
Cold, cold, cold as when, first-born of earth, 

Abel tasted thy breath! 
And yet when the night-shadows creep. 
With a newness of anguish we weep 

For her spirit asleep! 



39 



Val d'Arno 



As lake-boats seek their twilight coves, 

And flocks their foUi at night, 
I languish for the grots and groves 
Where still each Nymph and Naiad roves 
Who taught my youth delight. 

How wild the wind-swept waste of furze! 

How shrill the killdee's call! 
Yet there I know how warmly stirs 
The breeze among the gossamers 

Which fleck the tuff^d wall. 

The far peaks don their caps of snow 

For winter's long repose, 
But, browning on the slopes below, 
The tangled olives nod, and glow 

The crimson coquelicots. 

Sweet Arno! As the light of shrines 

On some lone wayside gleams. 
So from the circling Apennines 
The memory of thy valley shines, 
The beacon of my dreams. 



40 



Venetian Memories 



(In a Volume of "Gondola Days.") 

Once more I hear the {gondolier 

As throuf^h the windinji alleys, 
With speedinji; oar and vvarninfz; clear 

He lightly veers and sallies; 
Once more the pif:;eons preen and coo 

In sunny square and tower, 
While far Friuli, faintly blue, 

Sleeps out the sultry hour. 

The brif2;ht lagoon reflects the moon 

Where crimpling waves are breaking; 
Night, with the voice and breath of June, 

In joyous swell is waking; 
The (larkened dials half forget 

1\) sermonize on pleasure. 
Where '^fime is but a canzonet. 

And Life treads out the measure. 



I found her fair when wandering there. 
Hut, summoned by these pages. 

The Venice which with thee I share 
My deeper love engages ; 

41 



"Pis not the spt'Il of l)ofi;c aiul I)iiilc 
Willi wliicli she now ciitraiucs, 

Hut (Ii.it, vvitli soul to soul iillicd, 
\Vc (r.uc her old roniMrucs. 



42 



The Scorn of the Sky 



lil.KAK, all! bleak were tlu- lull and the liratlu-r; 

Cheerless and chill was the sky; 
Wintry the hearts and wintry the weather — 

Fitly has fallen the die. 

Fair, ah! fair were the June blossoms blushing; 

Green }2;rew the tall, tassel ed corn, 
When, with thy soft cheek blanchin^j; and flushln^i;, 

Heart from its twin heart was torn. 

Ne'er, ah! ne'er was the sim su( h a sultan; 

Ne'er was the earth such a bride; 
Ne'er did the Naiads of blown blooms exult on 

JJreast of so brijijht-briinined a tide. 

Such, ah! such was the scene when we severed. 

Mow, shall we meet, wondered 1, 
When, having vainly endured and endeavored. 

Love can not hope, can not die? 

How, ah! how will the skies bend above us? — 

Sun-lit or storm-lashed the day ? 
Warm as our dof)m-dole(I last kiss as lovers? 

Cold as the part we must play? — 

43 



Cold, ah! cold, and not solely in seeming: 
Drear are the hearts that must wear, 

Like a pent pink where glaciers are }2;leaming, 
Love in the thrall of despair. 

Now, ah ! now we have met ; it is over ! 

Both read the scorn of the sky. 
Fast fell the snow where once bloomed the clover; 

Wanly the clouds drifted by. 

Bleak, ah! bleak were the hill and the heather; 

Cheerless and chill, thou and L 
Wintry the hearts and wintry the weather, 

Fitly has Fate cast the die. 



44 



Twin But Twain 



Shall I be there, 
Where bridal tapers brightly flare, 
And mocking music fills the air, 
A cypress leaf to lurk beneath 
The whiteness of the orange wreath? 

Shall I stand by. 
While life's last hope you crucify, 
And teach my lips a smiling lie, 
Bleeding, though bland, while labored wit 
But ill conceals the counterfeit? 



Shall I whose eyes. 
Beneath those same resplendent skies. 
Once warmed the love you now despise, 
Pledge thee at Cana when their brine 
Must be the water for my wine? 

Ah! no, not there, 
For it would seem to my despair 
That when they gem your raven hair 
And clothe thee like the saintly dead, 
A sadder ritual should be read. 



45 



And such to me 
That hour, indeed, shall ever be, 
Until, in sweet eternity. 
The souls which fate made twin but twain 
Shall meet and minp;le once apain. 



46 



Afloat 



Ah ! could we ever drift and dream 
In these cool coverts of repose, 

The world, like yonder restless stream 
Which vainly sparkles as it flows. 

Would leave beneath thy sweet control 

The calmed Propontis of my soul. 

Rich as the splendor of a day 

Bequeathed to one memorial star. 

Soft as the mirrored lifj;hts which play 
At eveninjj; through each melting bar, 

This silvery isle in wastes of green 

Receives its long expected queen. 

The listless prow, the idle oar, 

The courtly waves which dance to thee. 

The reeds which line the circling shore, 
And, as the petals hide the bee, 

Enfold us in their fond embrace — 

All but reflect thy varied gra(;e. 

But birds forget their morning note. 

The jasmines shed their cups of gold ; 
And, like some gorgeous cloud afloat, 

47 



Thou, too, wilt pass and, unconsoled, 
Leave to the languor of despair 
The scenes thy presence made so fair. 

Still, if in this enchanted sphere 

No longer we may drift and dream, 

'Tis ours at least to wake and steer, 
'Tis ours to leave the restless stream, 

And twine from roses of to-day 

A garland for some happier May. 



48 



The Feast of Fools 



This is the Feast of Fools, 

Heart of my heart's desire; 
Wisdom abates her rules — 
Motley the sole attire; 
Hence in my hardihood come I to pray, 
Be mine to-day. 

Year round, my cap and bells 

Nod in your courtly train, 
While that my soul rebels 
Under your light disdain ; 
Yet on this Feast of Fools one dares to say, 
Be mine to-day. 

Well may you laugh it down; 

Never such folly since 
Titania clasped a clown 

As her white bosom's prince; — 
Wherefore this Feast of Fools bids you say, "Yea, 
"Take me to-day." 

Hautboy and dulcimer 
Strike up a frolic air; 
Ermine and miniver 

49 



Join in the merry fair; 
This is the Feast of Fools; — therefore you may 
Be mine to-day. 

Sages in sober gray 

Teach us to borrow 

Prudence from yesterday 

Against to-morrow. 

Folly shall flout the schools ; shame on delay ! 

Be mine to-day. 



50 



The Nun 



'Tis not for you, my lady fair, 

To fold your dimpled hands, 
To darker hood your raven hair, 
And on your lily brow to wear 

The Sister's whiter bands. 

The eyes which mock those cloister cloths 

And glitter through the gloom 
Too brightly tempt us mortal moths 
For one whose virgin soul betroths 
The convent for a groom. 

Let those retire who quit mankind 

To measure scorn for scorn ; 
The weak of heart or strong of mind. 
Who there may take their wounds to bind, 

Or guard against the thorn. 

But you? — ah! no, my lady fair. 
The Maker's marks are plain ; 
Such charms could never bring despair, 
The crimson currents coursing there 
Are not for cold disdain. 



But if you needs must take the veil, 

And henceforth dwell apart, 
Come where the Credo and the Hail 
Are loyal love's own tender tale. 
And cloister in my heart. 



52 



"Thou Shalt Not Walk Alon( 



Thou shalt not walk alone! 
The shadows p;ather and the weird winds moan, 
The ghoul, Grief, grinneth on the graven stone; 
Wild is the way, but lone it shall not be 
If I may share thy pilgrimage with thee. 

As from a mystic scroll 
Which love and sympathy alone unroll, 
I read the secrets of thy sorrowing soul, 
And with responsive sorrow take thy hand 
To lead thee o'er the baleful borderland. 



I know the torturer's tongue 
In spiteful rage has racked thee, and has wrung 
The blood of suffering from the heart which stung 
Presumption with defiance, yet the scar 
Will but attest how firm thy virtues are. 



Be cheered, if I may cheer, 
For thou, the dearest, shalt be doubly dear; 
World-wounded spirit, make thy haven here. 
Deep as the love thou wakenest in my breast 
Shall be my rapture and thy perfect rest. 

53 



A Woeful Ballad of After Days 



Well, I find you fair as ever, 

Golden Hair, 
And, despite my best endeavor 

To beware. 
Comes a soft and subtle feeling 
Of — you know — all through me stealing, 
As in days when I was kneeling 

At — ^your chair. 

Time has touched you rather lightly, 

It appears ; 
(Little wonder that so knightly 

Passed the years!) 
Though the pink Cordelian jewel 
Bears a witness somewhat cruel 
That the end of bib and gruel 

Swiftly nears. 

Turn the light a little higher, 

If you please ; 
Is that matronly attire 

Meant to tease? 
With your curls in sober braiding. 
Aren't you merely masquerading, 

54 



The illusion deftly aiding 
With your keys? 

No? Ah, well! I will remember— 

If I must; 
Though 'tis hard to see the ember 

Turn to dust — 
Hard to see you standing by me 
While familiar lips deny me, 
And your very eyes defy me — 

With their trust. 

Still, we showed the sun a warmer 

Zodiac, 
Should he wish to quit his former 

Beaten track; 
My remembrance of the bliss is, 
Those were not the frigid kisses 
Of the water colored misses 

On a plaque. 

Why, we taught Dan Cupid fashions 

In his trade; 
And we showed him finer passions. 

Ready made. 
So you can not greatly blame me 
That the old emotions claim me. 
When the charms that overcame me 

Will not fade. 

Yet it's idle to invoke the 
Youth we praise; 

55 



It has vanished — with the polk, the 

Polonaise ! 
I will pitch a tent in Edom, 
Take your letters out and read 'em- 
And reflect how sweet is freedom, 

All my days. 



S6 



Our Ways 



Though my way lead through the lone wood, 
And thy way lead o'er the hills, 
I feel and I swear 
That we both but fare 
To the tryst which a long love wills. 

For after the gloom of the forest, 
And after the gleam on the crest, 
It can not but be 
That for thee and for me 
Comes the land which we both love best. 

I strive not to reason or reckon — 
To parallel paths that divide. 
But, threading the maze 
Of the tortuous ways, 
We shall yet journey side by side. 

"Good night," let it be, till "Good morrow:" 
In love and in faith I shall wait. 

The veil on thy brow 

And the syllabled vow 
Can not alter the purpose of Fate. 



57 



Undertones 



How strange, how stranjj;e that you, the tender-hearted, 

Should teach me scorn of very tenderness. 
And send the soul which loved you, stunned and thwarted, 
Back where the worldinjzis press! 

What is the vaunted comradeship of feeling. 

And what the sweet community of mind. 
Since you, being you, to all my warm appealing, 
No answering thrill can find ? 

In the calm night, when silence was unbroken. 

Save by the influent voices of the spheres. 
Have we not caught them, and, with thoughts unspoken. 
Shared them through spirit ears? 

All august mysteries of life eternal — 

The muffled thunder of a falling leaf. 
The star-light flashes from the gates supernal, 
With heaven in faint relief — 

Have we not listened through the quiet hours. 

With hearts accordant to each undertone. 
And marked with mutual eyes the symboled powers 
Revealed to us alone? 

58 



And is there no endearment left to bind us? 

Must I in you, as in the leaf and star, 
But glimpse a heaven, sent only to remind us 
That heaven is yet afar? 

No more calm nights, no more of feelings tender, 

Since heaven is far and tenderness is pain; 
What unto me is rendered let me render, 
And seek the world again. 



59 



Measures 



Must I at last in slow, f!;rave measure }i;rect thee? 

In low, calm cadences, with dying fall, 
'Round whom the rippling lyrics, fain to meet thee, 
So loved to break and brawl? 

Must we who walked such sunny ways together — 
Shared the soul-whispers of the lake and wood, 
Set separate paths across a rain-drenched heather, 
And dare an unknown flood? 

Time is not change; ah! Time is but a garden 

Where neighboring buds are nearest when they blow- 
Where tender tendrils which the seasons harden, 
Cling closer as they grow. 

Space is not distance; giving thought for thought, Love, 

In the tense hushes, under sun and star, 
A code and cable we have slowly wrought. Love, 
Which makes no near and far. 

So if in slow, grave measures I must greet thee, 

Then in diminuendos of despair 
Expires the fairest hope which rose to meet me 
When life was very fair, 

60 



"When I Kissed Your Tears Away" 



Night, but silver-veiled the valley; 

Night, but splendor on the hill; 
While below us musically 

Broke the ripples of the rill. 
Witching nature's soft beguiling 

Made the night a mellow day ; — 
All the world, beside, was smiling 

When I kissed your tears away. 

Heart to heart, in tumult beating. 

Told their parting tale too well, 
Like some wind-swept strings repeating 

Dirges for their shattered shell. 
Love bemoaned its ill-starred capture, 

And the lips which must unsay, 
Trembled with a bitter rapture 

When I kissed your tears away. 

Love-locked arms, with frenzied passion. 
Strained farewell, yet yearned to stay; 

Over twinned cheeks, anguish ashen. 
Pitying ringlets stole astray. 

Eyes, like misty temple tapers, 

When the incense clouds their ray, 

6i 



Shone through sighs whose melting vapors, 
Turned to tears, I kissed away. 



Hoodwinked hope, poor fettered falcon! 

Fretted for that genial sky 
Where no Alps nor horean Balkan 

Breathed their chilling influence nigh. 
Or, with yet a manlier daring, 

Longed this anxious heart to say, 
"Storms may come, but, undespairing. 

Love shall kiss your tears away." 

But alas! for fate and feeling. 

And alas! for those who part: 
Time can bring no power of healing, 

Absence no remedial art. 
Yet awhile the husk and lentil 

And the exile's sunless day. 
Until, lily-lipped, but gentle. 

Death shall kiss our tears away. 



62 



Love's Afterwhile 



I MAY not rule the despot stars 

Which pigmy every towen'np; hope, 

Nor scorn t!ic tyrant fate which bars 
My soul within its narrow scope, 

But o'er life's troubled Galilee 

I still may steer to peace and thee. 

I may not strike the minstrel strings 

Which echo into far renown, 
Nor find the feigned Bahaman springs 

Through guardian verdure gurgling down 
But wherefore music when you speak? 
What spring beyond your eyes to seek? 

And here my ranging heart shall rear 

Its utmost pillars of desire: 
Unreasoning pride and brooding fear 

Are lost in love's refining fire ; 
And if their sweetness now be o'er, 
Life's misstrung chords shall jar no more. 

Through all those drear, distracting hours, 
My Memnon heart still turned to thee; 

63 



And there, though night still darkly lowers, 

Its orient gaze shall ever be, 
Until, in love's sweet afterwhile. 
Its voice shall greet thy morning smile. 



64 



Her Heart 



TAKri aw;iy the flowirif^ R'd'^ons 

That exhilarate no more; 
f\jr within her fervent eyes 
All the summer sunlij^ht lies 

That the garnered f^rape could store. 

'I'ake away the lute, the laughter 

That once made the heart rejoice; 
For, like streams upon the pehhles, 
Breaking into trembling trebles, 
Is the music of her voice. 



'I'ake away the richest roses 

That the gardens ever grew; 
For her coyly curling lips 
Too transcendcntly eclipse 

All their grace of curve and hue. 

Take away the gleams of glory. 

Whose allurements but impart 
Gloom to this despairing spirit 
Which would sooner, far, inherit 
Her sweet, sympathetic heart. 

65 



Entombed 



As the great who, dying glorious, 

In their temple-tombs repose, 
And, with death in vain victorious. 
Sleep where master hands, laborious, 
Have created marble woes ; — 

Sleep where softened sunbeams dally 
Down the tessellated aisles: 

Where the mass as musically 

Floats as streams down Tempe's valley, 
And all blended beauty smiles; 

So with her, in whom designing 

Nature built its noblest shrine — 
Hair of gold's severest fining, 
Eyes of light's most lucent shining, 
Form most fashioned for divine, — 

There the heart, intense and tender. 

Doomed to perish through its pride, 
Sepultured amidst the splendor 
Which united graces lend her, 
Rests with her for whom it died. 

66 



After the Strife 



Have I not fought at Ephesus? 

What did the Tarsan know 
Of passions wilder than the beasts 

He strove with long ago? 

Some I have slain in manly wise, 
And some but wounded were, 

And one remains, with cougar strength 
Behind the cougar's purr. 

This master passion holds at bay 
What power of will there be, 

For love is love through all estates, 
And mine still turns to thee. 

Go bid the lustre of thine eyes 

Retire in cold eclipse; 
Go bid the wasting years efface 

The crimson from thy lips. 

They work the old familiar spell. 
And feed the lingering flames 

Which now have burned too long to yield 
To jugglery of names, 

67 



Can he who loved the perfect bud 

Forget the perfect rose, 
Because, perchance, some later stalk 

Beside its beauty grows? 

I, too, have fought at Ephesus, 
But what availed the sword? 

To one imperious power I yield, 
And own that Love is lord. 



68 



A Song and A Sigh 



The course of my love is a son^r and a sigh ; 

In the bi-seasoned year of my heart, 
The holly scarce waits for the crocus to die, 

And the kiss fades away with a smart. 

The course of my love is a song and a sigh: 
The blight soon succeeds to the bloom ; 

The lips that are rosiest, readiest lie, 
And the glow is a promise of gloom. 

I have loved her — ah, well ! — but be tranquil ; 'tis I : 
My lute, when its strings are unstrung. 

Must hang where the breezes that softly breathe by 
Make the same chords to sigh that have sung. 



69 



La Belle Concierge 

Shk lived by glassy Lenian, 

Where Chillon's jjables rise, 
And all the stars in lake and sky 

Were dim beside her eyes. 
Her dark hair bound my heart in — 

Her brown hand took my fees; 
But welcome, jaunty janitress, 

Who kept tile castle keys! 

The snowy Alpine mountains 

Breathed health upon her cheek, 
While in her voice the far-off note 

Oi yodels seemed to speak ; 
And w hen the storied vaults there 

Maile all my blood to freeze, 
She warmed it back — the Switzer maid 

Who kept the castle keys. 

Her form was yoiuifj; and slender; 

How could it be so hard 
To loose the chain which held me there 

As fast as Bonnivard ? 
Were there not fjaily jiowncd belles 

Among the Genevcse 

70 



Whose hands were softer than the hands 
'^I'hat kept the castle keys? 

As o'er those haunted chambers 

Her j^racious look she cast, 
She seemed h'ke Chillon's chatelaine 

Returning; from the past ; 
And yet I know that proud dame 

Had not the power to please 
Like that arch child who filled her place, 

And kept the castle keys. 

I wonder if the roses 

Still clamber on the wall! — 
I know a faded rose that rests 

In more than jealous thrall. 
She tip-toed, for the best bud. 

Of course, was hard to seize — 
Thought she that in some after year 

Id need her castle keys? 

Ah, well, for glassy Leman, 

And Chillon's gabled pile! 
Perhaps no witching warder lights 

Those donjons with a smile; 
But you, my kerchiefed Swit/er, 

In lands beyond the seas. 
Have hjcked your image in my heart — 

And thrown away the keys! 



71 



'Make Her Thus Fair'' 



Softly insidious, 

Grecian in 12; race, 
Such as skilled Phidias 
Wr()uj2;ht the fastidious — 
Such is her face. 



Fihuy habiliments 

Priestesses wear, 
Fine in its filaments, 
Dark as mad elements — 

Such is her hair. 

Li}j;ht semi-quavers, 

Or{i;ans' deep roll, 
Blent to enslave us — 
Where none can save us — 

Such is her soul. 

Nature, thy master-mold 

This is, I swear; 
And when at last T hold 
Love in a faster fold. 

Make her thus fair. 

72 



'^String Me the Strands'' 



String me the strands of her soft, hazel hair, 
Tuned to the key of her hiu}2;hter; 

Give me some fairy-like, Ariel air 
For the \'\\r.Ut breezes to waft her. 

Rhyme is too rude for such {2;races as her's, 
Rhythm too strained for her freedom — 

She the exquisite whose li;i;ht treadinji; stirs 
Flowers in life's herbless Edom. 

Spread like the after-^Iow chronics of the skies, 
Give me her childish cheek's blushes, 

Mixed with the tints of her autumn brown eyes, 
With her arched brows for my brushes. 

She is too artless for art to portray ; 

Gems with their own dust are burnished; 
Umber and ochre her charms to display 

From her own charms must be furnished. 

Then I shall ask not the sketchman his skill. 

Fret not with lords of the lyre ; 
One nectared kiss which her child lips distill 

Genius enough will inspire. 

73 



Carpe Diem 



Said the butter-cup bud to the swallow, 

"Why should I my petals unfold — 

My delicate petals of gold? 

For the blight of the winter must follow, 

And, strewn down the desolate hollow, 

My beauty must wither and mold !" 

And the rollicking swallow, replying, 
As sunward he circled to fling 
The light from his rapturous wing, 
Twittered, "What though a thousand are lying 
WTiere this happy year must be dying. 
To-day, O to-day. Love, is Spring!" 

Though the years are grief-laden behind us. 

And, like a dark caravan, nears 

The file of unpromising years, 
Let us twine from the roses assigned us 
In respite, a garland to bind us 

With strength for the season of tears. 

You have flouted the dreamy seclusion — 
The uplands made sweet with the corn. 
And meadows all dewy at morn, 

74 



Where our love was so free from intrusion 

And, caught in the world's quick confusion, 

You shine, still a queen, but forlorn. 

And you know now the tender compassion 
With which every elfin-eyed bower 
In tremulous woe watched the hour 
When, obedient to fortune and fashion, 
Your soul should be fed with a ration, 
And starved for the breath of a flower! 

But around us again are the roses. 
As rich as the memories they bring; 
(Ah, how their ripe petal-mouths cling!) 

Come! the vesper-dim trellis encloses; 

To-morrow as fortune disposes! 

To-day, O, to-day. Love, is Spring! 



75 



"We Love Again' 



I HAVE wooed in solemn-wise, 
I have wooed in song; 

I have wooed, in every mood. 
Full half a year too long. 

I have won — not even a smile, 
Softened from disdain! — 

Loved, to learn alone to burn 
Through passion into pain. 

I can now take leave of thee. 
Barren, yes, but blest ; 

Not till spent do souls consent 
To quit their rainbow quest. 

I, indeed, have vainly loved. 
Yet not loved in vain ; 

Balked desires but feed the fires 
With which we love again. 



76 



Love At Noon 



Though they wrote it in their blazonry 

In knightly days of yore, 
Though they wove it in the texture 
Of the gaudy scarfs they wore, 
Loving you, I am persuaded 
That they merely masqueraded, 
And that mortals never really loved before. 



Though the sombre boughs have blossomed, 

And the lark, on lighter wing, 
Has exulted in the glory 

Which successive Aprils bring. 
Since all days alike were gloomy 
Till at last they brought you to me. 
Surely this alone can boast the charm of Spring. 



Let me own that phantom fancies 
May have held a fleeting sway, 
Still the pallor of the morning 
Only heralded the day 

When affection, warm and tender. 
Came with full meridian splendor. 
And your radiance chased the shadowy doubts away. 

77 



Now with new and richer rapture 
All my quickened being thrills; 
Comes a purpose such as beauty 
Like thine own alone instills; 
Backward swing inviting portals 
Whence, like music of immortals, 
Swells a prelude which your presence but fulfills. 

Shall I come into the kingdom, 

After all this wear>' way? 
Have the seasons made December 
But a rugged guide to May? 

No? Then here's a smile for sorrow! 
Yes? Then never merrier morrow 
Was so sweetened with the chastening of delay. 



78 



^'Therefore I Call You Mine" 



Why should I call you fair? 
The shy leaves lisp it to the listening air, 
The wide world spells it in your waving hair, 
The kindred Graces greet you everywhere; 
What folly to define the charms you wear! 

Why should I call you fair? 

Why should I call you kind ? 
To every fault are j^ou not sweetly blind ? 
Have you not met me with a soul inclined 
To share the deep community of mind. 
Where Psyche can alone her Eros find ? 

Why should I call you kind ? 

Why should I call you wise? 
Can all the schools teach wisdom like your eyes? 
Have all the sophists such a creed as lies 
In the calm depths where softly fall and rise 
The wavering feelings I so dearly prize? 

Why should I call you wise? 



Why should I call you mine? 
Why should the tendrils of our hearts entwine? 

79 



Hecause I knew you as a soul divine, 
Sucii as no mortal tenements confine, 
When I and all the world's first joy were thine; 
Therefore I call you mine! 



80 



The Charm Eternal 

Full well I loved the ripened lips, 
And quickened with a winy j2;low 

To fold thy pulsing finfi;er-tips, 

And watch thy blushes come and go, 
l^hy near, sweet breath, in laufj;hter low, 

Exhaling myrrh and honey-drips. 

Even now the rumor that thy soul 
Its happy haven finds at last 

Revives those Lydian gales that stole 
Across the desert of the past, 
And j'et no lingering look I cast. 

As one who missed and mourns his goal. 

I find thee in the Autumn field. 

Entangled with the garnered grain ; 

I hear thee where the warblers yield 

Their hearts to some remembered strain; 
In hedges fragrant of the rain 

Thy wispy presence is revealed. 

This dear pervasion of thy charms 

With an immortal youth is dowered ; 
How quickly, in enfolding arms, 

8i 



Thy mortal bloom had been deflowered ! 
Now all thy years are rosy-houred, 
And death has lost its old alarms. 



82 



The Autumn Gale 



Up here where the p;hiciers fi;lint and fi;lare, 

And the liorean bhnst bestirs — 
Beyond the line where the hemh)cks strive 

In hardihood with the firs; 
Where the snow-peaks steal toward the bleak, <^ray skies, 

And the lin}j;erin}2; tvvilip;hts fail, 
I p;ather my strength for the first fell swoop — 

In the wrath of the Autumn i!;ale. 

The ermine stores his last scant food, 

And the wiu'te bear grows more hold ; 
The foot of man long since has fled 

From the drowsy stealth of the cold; 
So here in the caves I hide my steeds 

And husband flail on flail. 
For the day when my cavalcade shall ride 

On the wings of the Autumn gale. 

The aurora paints on the spaceless vault. 

With her vast and dazzling light. 
The varying rainbow dyes which cheer 

My world through the half year's night; 
And under her beams I dance with glee 

At thought of the woe and wail 

83 



When I come with the might of a thousand gods 
In the van of the Autumn gale. 

The stallions stamp in their stalls of snow 

And toss their milk-white manes, 
And the gods I rule even now rebel 

That I still withhold the reins; 
But the day draws near when the drills shall cease 

And the gods don icy mail — 
When, off at the bugle-note of the blast. 

Shall come the Autumn gale. 

And the puny roofs of the temperate zone 

Shall crush like a plover's shell ; 
The oaks shall break at my finger's touch — 

The seas grow a churning hell ; 
For this is the sport of the great north gods, 

Who even in sport prevail ; 
A day for the pranks of our frozen home, 

Then off with the Autumn gale! 



84 



On Nebo 



WiiRfi there no dawn, 
Wlien shadows flee, and wakinj^ birds are glad, — 

When all the curtains of the east, withdrawn. 

But inoclc the iieart, which then grows doubly sad, 

Perhaps — perhaps, regret might slumber on. 

Ah, would there were no dawn! 

Were there no noon, 
When sunny Nature drains the cup of dreams, 

And dove-cotes murmur where the pigeons croon, 
Till mid-day melts love's fast-imprisoned streams, 
A cold content might bring its tardy boon. 

Ah, would there were no noon ! 

Were there no night, 
When fire-side faces share the welcome glow. 

And twining fingers throb with warm delight. 
Till drowsy crickets say the lights are low, 

I'his lone, lone hearth might seem less vainly bright. 
Ah, would there were no night! 

Dawn, noon and night. 
Heart of my heart! through all the days and years 
I'hose childhood charms still haunt my aching sight, 

85 



Which now sees clearly, though alas! thn)u}!;h tears, 
Since I must rest on Nebo's cheerless hei}!;ht. 

Heart of my heart, good-night! 



86 



In 1 



cncbris 



II li who watilu'd tlioc with h)vt', when the days were iiiuhxidcd, 
And tlic I lustcrinij; lilacs hmtr;lu*d vvclcoiiu' to Spriiii«;, 

Turns, faithful — aye, fondlier, when life is enshrouded, 
And sends tliee a throh from his heart's every string. 

Ah, well do 1 know that tiie alter cniotions 

Are wild as the Pale Horse that paused at the door! 

But the voice that stilled (lalilee's restless connnotions 
Can calm the sad hearts that are made to deplore. 

Feel yet, if you can, in the soul's dark Deceinhers, 
That one, oft beside you, walks still at your side — 

'I'hat when the soft shadow-shapes creep o'er the endnTS 
In spirit, once more at the hearth I abide. 

How |)oor is the |)en when it tims seeks to soften 
'I'he woe in the wake where the Reaper went by! 

And yet the storm never swept o'er us so often 

Hut what we were ^lad at the thou|:;ht of the sky. 

'Jhou^h nutie be a sorrow, alas! beyond curing!; — 
'I'he pain of a partinjj; where Hope had to die — 

I pray that thine own may be ma«Ie unendurinj!; 

liy the wine and the oil that are poured from on hi^i;h. 

S7 



The Groom's Toast 



This is a briny breath of days 
Whose sea-born song is sung ; 
A wind-fall from the fragrant ways 
Where roUic roses sprung — 
Where opiate bees 
And lyric leas 
Gave every joy a tongue. 



This is a crocus of the spring, 
Whose odor could but die; 
A pinion moulted from the wing 
Which flecks our careless sky — 
A vagrant dream 
To fit their theme 
Who preach and prophesy. 



Yet tenderer tendrils now entwine; 

The lily shames the rose ; 
Beyond the wayward eglantine 
The sturdy ilex grows; 
The cooler wine 
Which snows refine 
Still sparkles as it flows. 



So let this be a briny breath 

From seas we yet shall sail; 
This wind-fall fragrance whispereth 
Of yet a spicier gale ; 
More sweetly still 
The daffodil 
Shall deck the calmer vale. 



89 



Christopher Marlowe 



Poor Kit ! Have these mad masquers quite forgot 
The dark alembic of thy mighty mind, 
Wherein our mimic world was first refined, 

And fused to shapes as tragic as thy lot? 

Evangel, crying in the wilderness. 

Whose coming made the way of Shakespeare straight, 
Not even the master's self, serenely great, 

Can make the splendor of thy genius less. 

How like thee are the children of thy brain! — 
Timour, the lame, and Faustus, sold to sin ; 

Yet, thinking on the young creator, slain — 
Thy journey ended at a wayside inn. 

We mourn and bless thee who, at life's high noon, 

Lay dead at Deptford on a night in June. 



90 



Resurrection 



That power which on the moss-grown trunk 

Brings beauty from decay, 
And, when the evening sun hath sunk. 

Adorns the dying day; 

That God who animates the dust 

And resurrects the rose. 
Will surely recompense my trust — 

Immortalize my woes. 

Then shudder not, O soul of mine! 

To peer into the gloom, 
Since knowledge of that truth divine 

Illuminates the tomb. 



Towards Sodom 



You point me to her pallid cheek, 
The step which once was stronger, 

The eyes which now but feebly speak; 
Then bid me love no longer. 

I know she lacks the rounded grace 
With which she once was dowered, 

More wan for each poor lingering trace 
Which care has not deflowered. 

I know she brewed the poisonous draught 
With which she now is wasted, 

And might have thriven had she quaffed 
The cup returned untasted. 

But ah! how dear those former scenes; 

As their lost light I weep her; 
So marvel not that Memory gleans 

Where Love has been the reaper. 

Though fate has left its withering track. 
Though still the tempest lowers. 

The exiled heart turns fondly back 
Towards Sodom's blackened towers. 

92 



<*Twixt Longing and Alarm" 



The light-lipped waves, with shy desire, 

A moment dare to kiss thee, 
And then with timorous haste retire, 

For fear that it amiss be. 
Until, 'twixt longing and alarm. 
Their breast is tortured into calm. 

Could I but make their fate my own. 
The feelings which involve me 

Might well and willingly atone, 
Or conscience quite absolve me, 

And though the conflict mortal be. 

How sweet to perish thus for thee! 



93 



The Alps 



At last, as when some self-deluded seer 
Half-credits his own prophecies and waits 

Fulfillment's ripening hour with hope and fear, 
I come to greet the mountains at whose gates. 

Sealed since creation's immemorial year, 

The Carthagenian laughed, and at the dates 

Of their own dateless ages, pensive, gaze, 

And guess the record of departed days. 

Towering like Time into the spacious breast 
Of that Eternity whose type ye are, 

Can we behold thee and yet not attest, 
Howe'er inclined we be with faith to war. 

That He whose plastic hand can thus invest 
Thee with a might and majesty so far 

Beyond us, must, in his essentials, be 

All grace and grandeur's full epitome? 

What mortal pigmy from thy vasty base 
Can gaze at thine embattled brows and say 

That he, poor pimple on Creation's face. 
Can reason a creative God away ? 

Who can behold thee in the soft embrace 
Of mother-clouds, whose bosom, day by day, 

94 



Nurses thee into fruitage, and deny 

To man a fostering influence from on high? 

The avalanche is but thy sportive jest; 

The lightnings are the twinklings of thine eye; 
Unmarked the boulder thunders from thy crest, 

And unregarded sweeps the tempest by; 
Vain man can mine but can not mar thy breast; 

The cataracts are thy tears, their roar thy sigh: 
Ye are the peaks, untrammelled and untrod ; 
Ye are the mountain master-works of God ! 



95 



<<Rest Here, My Pilgrim Heart" 



Uncinctureo and unsamlalcd, 
Rest here, my pilj2;rini heart. 
The mocking miraj:;e and the blast 
Of desert wastes are gone at last; 
Come, tent thee where thou art. 



Anihirion here may leather 

New couraj];e for its flight, 
Or failure find within her eyes 
A comfort dearer than the prize, 
And put the world in spite. 

Life now beholds its purpose, 
And Hope's directins:: star, 
In mists so long and deeply veiled, 
While tempests of unrest assailed. 
Gleams clearly, though afar. 



More fluent lips may niuuber 

The bead roll of her charms: 
T falter, and can only kneel, 
Attesting luutely what 1 feel, 
Where silence pleads in psalms. 

96 



Unfettered and unfoUowed, 

Nest here, win^-weary heart: 
Above the flippant shafts of men, 
Beyond the range of grosser ken, 
'Tis sweet to dwell apart. 



97 



Margery Blair 



Radiant Margery Blair! 
What a witchery dwells in thy soft, golden hair, 
Where the sunlight is caught in its willingest snare ; 
And the glory which glows from thy smile and thine eye 
Has concentered to crown, where unable to fly! 

Winning Margery Blair! 
When was mind so seductive or beauty so rare? 
When was heart so congenial or sweet face so fair? 
Have the angels which graced thee forgotten thee here. 
Or their envy forbidden thy spirit its sphere? 

Gentle Margery Blair! 
Thy symmetrical form is divine, and the air 
Must have woven its graces, such lightness is there. 
While the melodies blent in thy rapturous voice 
Arc the softest of all the soft children of choice. 



Distant Margery Blair! 
Undiminishing miles exercise fiendish care 
To continue thy absence and mock at my prayer. 
But, O hasten the day when, the prince of the blest, 
I may clasp thee, sweet Margery Blair, to my breast! 



Repentance 



"L'amour et la repentir se confondre toujours." — Heloise TO 
Abelard. 

O MY Margery Blair! 
I am sick with the sorrow and bowed with the care 
Of estrangement and silence and darkening despair; 
I am sick of the world, and would fly to the breast 
Where thy heart-beats, my beauty! once wooed me to rest. 

Cruel Margery Blair! 
I have wandered, but now, with my bosom laid bare, 
I return, and appeal with a penitent's prayer; 
I have wandered, 'tis true, but forgiveness divine 
Surely waits on a soul so seraphic as thine. 

Wounded Margery Blair! 
Let us bind our abrasions, together, and share 
The spikenard and hyssop our ills to repair. 
For, with all my misgivings, ah ! how could I guess 
That the doubt of this love was but love's own excess? 

Listen, Margery Blair! 
There's a voice in my spirit which whispers, Beware! 
There are burdens, since Cain's, which no mortal may bear, 
And, although self-envenomed, unless thou wilt cure, 
Oetan flames must destroy what I can not endure. 

LOfC. ^^ 



To Angelica, in the Canaries 



Never call them the Fortunate Islands again, 
Those far away gems of the tropical sea; 

Though delightful each valley and smiling each plain, 
Misfortune alone they have reckoned to me. 

Though the cool winds of Atlas come over the way, 
And tempered Sahara breathes beauty around, 

So long as my Angel of Peace they delay, 

I bless not the land where such beauties abound. 

When you yet had not quitted your own native isle. 
Where love and communion had blest every scene, 

It was sorrow enough that, although you should smile. 
The waves of the Mexico thundered between. 

It was sorrow enough while you yet were inclined 
To abide in the soft, sunny climate of Spain; 

Although, even then, I had been more resigned, 
And soon could have hoped to behold you again. 

But saddest of all, cherished child of the sun ! 

Your absence in those distant isles to deplore, 
WTiere wildly the waves on the rocky coast run 

And Tenerifle answers the sea with its roar. 



Then return from the Fortunate Islands, return! — 
Most favored of all in the smiles you impart; 

And, endowed with a wealth ancient oars could not earn, 
Bring back the same treasure you carried — your heart. 



Crucita 



Shall I say that I love thee, Crucita? 

Shall my heart its deep feelings unfold? 
Vows could never be truer, nor passion more pure, 

Yet the truth may be sometimes too bold. 

Shall I say that the beauty of darkness 

Has woven a crown for thy brow, 
Or has built it a nest where the sunlight may rest, 

To provoke what I dare not avow? 

Shall I say that thy bright eyes inflame me? 

Such, I know, would be feeble indeed ; 
But because words are weak, shall the spirit not speak 

In the glance which a glance well may read ? 

Ah! yes, gentle child of the tropics! 

My devotion has long been confessed. 
And all life shall be sw^eeter and brighter, Crucita, 

When thy smile shall lull longing to rest. 



102 



Cuba 

"Cuba is the smile of the sea." — Ingersoll. 

Yes, "the smile of the sea," where the dark senorlta, 

With a jilance which the ^ratinfj; between renders sweeter, 

Gazes roguishly forth from the Eden of flowers 

Where the Eves of this bright land have builded their bowers. 



Half concealed from the sight in their blooming seclusion, 
How their scintillant eyes pierce the tangled profusion 
Of locks spun of midnight: how subtle the wiles 
Which enchantment has spread in their mischievous smiles! 

Yes, how willingly, sweetly those red lips reveal 
All the treasures those lightly hung portals conceal; 
While the heart, burning warmly with welcoming glow, 
Bids the wayfarer rest from the world and its woe. 

How divine is the touch of the dimpled, dark hand, 
Unreluctantly given, with no prudery banned ! 
And how soft is the cheek where the kiss of the sun 
Leaves a smile for the sweetness his boldness has won! 

Here the palms kiss the skies, here the waves kiss the shore, 
And the bright-plumaged birds flash and sing evermore; 

103 



Here the sweet winds of heaven breathe a drowsy perfume 
'Till their march the charmed Hours half forget to resume. 

Who can wonder that ocean so fondly enfolds 
This, the fairest of fairylands mortal beholds? — 
That the bold Genoese, from these shores, yet untrod, 
Raised Columbia's first hymn to the mariner's God ? 

Well I love thee, bright isle! where the stranger's sad eyes 
Learned to brighten again with the light of thy skies ; 
And, O yet may the sunlight and stars of the free 
Gently smile upon "Cuba, the smile of the sea." 

Havana, December, i88g. 



104 



Restored 



From the land where the Lethean waters descend, 

And the languishing light makes more gloomy the gloom 

That enshrouds the calm banks where the poppy stalks bend, 
And the spirit is seared with the chill breath of doom, — 

From the mysteries of silence that dwell in the tomb. 
Where the chrysalis souls wait the Spring of the blest, 

I return, sickened yet with the drowsy perfume. 

To the earth and the life-love which thou hast confessed. 

Had those ultimate regions refused to restore 

Him who long had breathed sunshine and shadow with thee, 
Thou, perchance, wouldst have deigned for awhile to deplore 

That companionship's pleasures no longer could be. 

Thou, perchance, wouldst have turned to the days that are fled. 
When together we threaded youth's flowery way, 

And, in kindness forgetting the faults of the dead. 
Dropped a tear on the prisoning dust where he lay. 

But, restored to the blessing of wandering with thee 
Through the bowery roses which Loves intertwine, 

I shall sing — we shall sing — of a sorrow set free, 
And a day that has dawned with a glory divine. 

105 



Leo XIII 



Pecci or Pontifex, bishop or Vicar, 

Salve Ecternum! 
Here in the shadow-land creeds cease to bicker: 

Salve asternum! 
Ancient of daj^s thou art, 
And who shall say thy heart 
Chose not the better part? 

Salve aeternum! 

Quirinal or Vatican, crown or tiara, 

Salve internum ! 
Bethlehem triumphs still over Megara. 

Salve cEternum ! 
Jarnac was long ago; 
They whose sires struck the blow 
All thy own virtues know. 

Salve asternum ! 

Thine is the common fate; 

Salve aeternum ! 
Death comes or soon or late ; 

Salve aeternum ! 
Yet thou hast left a name 
Kings could not dare to claim, 

io6 



Loftily free from blame. 
Salve a^ternum! 

Pecci or Pontifex, bishop or Vicar, 

Salve jeternum! 
Here in the shadow-land creeds cease to bicker. 

Salve tEternum! 
Long has thy journey been, 
Patriarch paladin ; 
Now that you enter in. 

Salve aeternum ! 



107 



^*My Sea'' 

''How I shall miss my seaT — Plus X. 

Around me throng the Noble Guards, 

The flower of knightly grace; 
The faithful Switzers ward my way 

In their accustomed place; 
The princes of the church bow down 

To own fny high degree, 
And yet with splendor everywhere. 

How I shall miss my sea ! 

I hold the hearts of half the world ; 

The empire of the soul 
Is centered in the narrow sphere 

Of my white shepherd's stole ; 
The petty kings who reign and rule 

Are underlings to me — 
And yet, amidst this panoply. 

Ah ! how I miss my sea ! 

Last night I dreamed that once again. 

Beneath the waxing moon, 
I floated by the palaces 

That line the Great Lagoon ; 

1 08 



The Adrian breezes kissed my cheek 

In fresh, exultant glee, 
But here I woke in narrow walls: — 

How I shall miss my sea! 

A captive on this beetling hill, 

I mark the winding course 
Of yellow Tiber from its mouth 

To yonder Sabine source ; 
O, all around is free, but I 

Who hold St. Peter's key 
Unloose all locks except mine own:— 

How I shall miss my sea ! 



109 



Once More 



The shadows gather in my heart, 

The night winds chill my soul, 
And they who only met to part 

Must play their wretched role. 
But one more cup to crown the feast. 

One chansonette to close, 
And then good-night until the east 

Of heavenly day-break glows. 



The dial of our destiny 

Marks midnight's parting hour. 
However sweet thy guest to be. 

Despair must be our dower. 
But lend the courage of a kiss. 

One long embrace the more 
To brighten memory with the bliss 

Which hope can not restore. 



The threatening thread-hung blade of fate 

Gleams just above my head. 
To reign is but a fool's estate — 

The royal joy of dread. 

IIO 



But, 'midst the rapture of alarms, 

O, let me rule again 
Within the empire of thine arms, 

And death may end my reign. 



"Spring is Winter's Warning' 



What is Spring but Winter's warning? 

What is sullen night 
But the dotage of the morning, 

If we read aright? 
Withering in the sombre glade 
Lie the leaves beneath whose shade 
Once so lovinglj^ we strayed, 

Merrily a-Maying. 
Coldly flows the strangled stream 
Where, beneath a warmer beam, 
We were wont to sit and dream. 

Love to love betraying. 

What is life but sheathing myrtle 

For the blade, despair? 
Comes the thunderbolt to hurtle 

Through the summer air. 
See! ambition's every hope 
Strews the sear and wintry slope 
Where, in Spring, we watched it ope — 

Spring, the soft deceiver! 
And the chilly winds of fate 
Freeze the currents, once elate. 
But which now alas! pulsate 

Feebler from their fever. 



In Silence 



Could feeling flow to words as free 
As flows thy blood to beauty, 

These silent lips would never be 
Unworthy of their duty, 

And on Affection's pirate sea 
This heart would claim its booty. 

But with thine eloquence of, glance 

And thy convictive smiling. 
Expression can not break the trance 

Of thine own soft beguiling. 
So take the heart which, wordless, pants 

Through Fate's austere exiling. 



The Golden Wedding 



We have reached the golden evening, 
We have measured out the span 

Which the Psalmist's sacred numbers 
Called the destined 3fears of man. 

We have crossed the sterile desert 
Where the Marah fountains flow, 

And from Pisgah's sunny summit 
Face the Canaan just below. 

But the pillar of affection 

Has directed all our way, 
Every night a burning beacon, 

And a guiding cloud by day. 

Hope has sent the strengthening manna. 
Faith has made the rock a rill, 

And the God who guarded Israel 
Keeps His watch above us still. 

We have reached the golden Autumn 

Of our fellow-journeying. 
But, with swxet October fruitage, 

Who could ask the buds of Spring? 



So with hearts more warmly wedded, 

Let us lovingly abide 
Till we go to meet the welcome 

Of the Spirit and the Bride. 



"5 



The Platonists 



Shall man commend his strength of will 

In plucking not the fruit, 
Or curse suggestion stoutlier still 

For broaching thus the brute? 

The Platonists are solemn fools, 

The eunuchs of desire, 
For it must be that that which rules 

Is fortitude or fire. 



ii6 



Discontent 



I SIGHED for a desolate island 

Where none might intrude on my dreams- 
Where hours all alone I might while and 

Alone pace the banks of its streams. 

I found me the desolate island ; 

But there all unquiet I dreamed. 
The hours were too lonely to while and 

I sighed till gone days were redeemed. 



117 



Sarah in Town 



Ah, Sally of the country lanes, 

Sun-bonnetted and brown. 
You gave the dawn a fresher face 

When you came tripping down; 
The bright brooks pledged a health to you, 

The wild rose gave a crown; — 
But now your hands are soft, and you 

Are Sarah here in town. 

Sweet Sally of the country lanes, 

Your heart was like a pool 
Where every feeling glassed itself. 

Serenely calm and cool; 
The prattle of your girlish lips 

Was simple as your gown ; — 
But now you take to French and frills 

As Sarah here in town. 

With what enchanting changes you 

Could pout and pirouette. 
The sunshine breaking from your eyes 

Before the lids were wet; 
But ah ! the Vere de Vere repose. 

With neither smile nor frown, 

. ii8 



Is stamped upon you since you came 
As Sarah here to town. 



I wonder, when the orchestra, 

With melting strains of Strauss, 
Has set your senses swimming in 

Some big, bright, crowded house, 
If fettered feelings do not turn 

To where the thrushes brown 
And all the early morning choir 

Call Sarah back from town. 

Sweet Sarah of the tinsel world. 

Your heart is still of gold ; 
Your face, in all its masquerade. 

Is charming to behold ; 
You little know how soon the crowd 

Is jaded with the clown. 
And how refreshing it would be 

If Sally came to town. 



119 



Her Married Name 



In the mountains, years ago, 

Underneath the arching vine, 
How she stirred the pulsing currents 

With her little hand in mine! 
And in dreams she comes again. 

Shy and sweet as then she came: — 
I would write and tell her, only 

I forget her married name. 

Where the bounding billows rolled, 

Like the beating of my heart. 
When we railed in rugged phrases 

At our fate that we must part. 
How she femininely swore 

Death would find her still the same!- 
I would write and tell her, only 

I forget her married name. 

Here are letters, pink and pale, 
Pale and old, but their perfume, 

Like a rising incense, sweetens 
All the corners of my room ; 

At the end of each a word 

Quite the dearest pen could frame: — 



I would send them to her, only 
I forget her married name. 

Why, from this one drops a curl, 

Soft as silk and bright as gold ! — 
Quite as silken in its softness 

As in golden days of old. 
She should have it back, I know, 

But I really fear the shame 
Should it prove her brunette sister 

Who took on a married name. 



121 



These Dog-Eared Books" 



I KNOW the value of the shelves 

Wherein a nation's hoard 
Of first editions, out-of-prints, 

And vellum tomes are stored, 
And musty scholars there may spell 

The quaint old English line; 
But vi^hat are they to me? I have 

These dog-eared books of mine. 

Here's one which came from old Madrid, 

While this one came from Tours, 
And this, a sou on Sa'n' Michel 

Was ample to procure. 
A cockney bookman swore that this 

Was bound too rummy fine 
To sell well, so I placed it with 

These dog-eared books of mine. 

A black-eyed maiden of Arqua, 

In days w^hen I was young, 
Gave these Petrarchan sonnettes, in 

Soft Petrarch's liquid tongue; 
And this old Wilhelm Meister came 

From somewhere on the Rhine: — 



Children of many lands are they, 
These dog-eared books of mine. 

They all are dear as are the days 

When they were rummaged out, 
But as to which is dearest, there 

Is not a moment's doubt; 
For here and there in this appears 

A dainty pencilled line: 
Most dog-eared, therefore, are its leaves 

Of all these books of mine. 



123 



My Ships 



These are the hazy, lazy days when one would like to dream 
Among the purple muscadines that line some drowsy stream, 
And quite forget the fret and care that everybody meets, 
And wish so much of this old world was not cut up in streets. 

For what's the use of all the toil to buy up hill and mead, 
When six feet in the shade is all you ever really need, 
And when no longer you can know the sundown from the dawn — 
Well, they'll put you with some other mighty good ones that are 

gone. 

You see that fleecy argosy which drifts above the trees. 
With swelling sails which slowly move across the azure seas? 
It leads me vastly nearer toward the envied Golden Fleece 
Than all the stately triremes that have churned away from Greece. 

Still, there must be the captains to adventure and command, 
And merchants, sharp and shifty, when the prow has touched the 

strand, 
And others still to chaffer in the open market place, 
And strive with one another for the highest rank and place. 

But while I know that ship of mine is never coming in, 
For journeys surely never end until they first begin, 
The floating fleets of every hue that sail so stately by, — 
They all are mine, so long as I can dream beneath the sky. 

124 



Bas Bleu 



On Cynthia's table lie a score 

Of novels new and old, 
In cloth and Russian leather bound, 

With titles stamped in gold ; 
Grave histories, flanked by chic memoirs. 

And flowers of verse in sheaves. 
But ah! believe her not; — you'll find 

She never cuts the leaves. 

To see her "putting" on the links. 

Or sporting in the wave, 
You'd scarce expect this shapely miss 

Could be so wise and grave 
As these octavos, scattered 'round, 

Imply — and ah! it grieves 
Me greatly to discover that 

She never cuts the leaves. 

When she ascribes to Sydney Smith 

A Curran anecdote. 
And thinks "Utopia" the best 

Thing Tom Moore ever wrote, 
One marvels she should err so far, 

Till he at last perceives 

125 



That, though these tomes are well displayed, 
She never cuts the leaves. 



And yet I'm quite as well content, 

For there old Balzac lies. 
And who would claim Boccaccio 

Quite fit for female eyes, 
And horrors! there lies Rabelais; — 

The outre tales he weaves 
I think had just as well remain 

Among the uncut leaves! 

And yet sweet Cynthia has one book 

She always keeps apart, 
Worth all her dainty Elzevirs — 

The volume of her heart. 
Provoking Cynthia, grave or gay, 

Ah ! how my spirit grieves 
That, with my best endeavors, still 

I may not cut the leaves. 



126 



Song of the July-fly 

For I am the July-fly! 
My music is of no particular school, 
I know very little of rhythm and rule, 
And I like all weather — so it isn't cool, 

For I am the July-fly! 

I'm as full as a kitten of fun; 
When the mercury climbs to a hundred and one 
It seems that the heat leaves the work half done. 
So I strike up a tune, out here in the sun, 
Till the whole world sizzles like a new-fried bun, 

For I am the July-fly! 

Yes, I am the July-fly! 
I make my appearance in the month of June, 
And for fear that people think I leave too soon, 
I stay on a month from the Harvest moon. 

For I am the July-fly! 

And when there comes a breeze, 
And the people all get stretched out at ease 
And seem to forget for a while that these 
Are the canine days, I get in the trees 
And strike up my saucy little song of degrees, 

For I am the July-fly! 

127 



Yes, I am the July-fly! 
Old Lazy Lawrence is a chum of mine, 
And where long acres of the white sand shine, 
I pipe and he dances in a way that's fine, 

For I am the July-fly! 

I know that people swear 
At my humble, unoperatic air, 
But as long as the bulb stays away up there. 
And the jolly old sun sheds a shimmering glare, 
Not one continental damnatus do I care, 

For I am the July-fly! 



128 



"She Whom I Loved is Dead" 



She whom I loved is dead; but not as die 

The pilgrims to the tomb! Still in her eye 

Light's fatal fount of fairness flows, and mocks 

The demon, Torture, and the heartquake's shocks; 

Still might those lips, flushed cheeks and lively form 

Make sculptor's marble dreams in envy warm 

To Galatean life; she might assume 

Upon her chiseled brow a living bloom ; 

Still she could smile on my exhausted soul 

And wake it into wildest uncontrol. 

As when, 'neath skies which storms have late swept free, 

Volcanoes burst from out the sleeping sea. 

Yet she is dead, for more than dead are those 

Whom resurrection wakes not from repose. 

She whom I loved in youth's unclouded Spring, 

When vocal passion first began to sing; 

Who first instructed this wrecked heart of mine 

How nearly mutual love could be divine ; 

With whom, in those sweet, unreturning days. 

When the trusting heart each tender sense betrays, 

I chased the Loves and Hours, with nimble feet, 

Imbibed pure joys, and deemed that life was sweet ; 

She whom I breathed — whose light, like that which yields 

Nurture to dwellers in Elysian Fields, 

129 



Was my soul's sustenance, has passed away, 
And left this stifled heart no beam of day! 

She whom I loved is dead! I did not fold 

The shroud about her beauteous form, made cold 

By the Cimber touch, the traitorous kiss of him 

The mortal-loving of the Seraphim ; 

I did not twine, with tender, loving care, 

Pale lilies — pale, pure lilies, in her hair; 

Place snowy roses on her snowy breast, 

Nor chant above her symphonies of rest; 

I did not stand beside her silent grave, 

And watch the weeping willows o'er her wave. 

Dropping upon her sacred dust the tears 

Which memory claimed for the departed years; 

Yet she is dead ! Ah ! that it thus had been ! 

Sweet spirit, thus desiring, do I sin? 

For then those charms which mocked my fruitless quest 

Would never make another soul more blest; 

The smile and glance which once were mine alone, 

Could be no other's, though no more my own. 

She whom I loved is dead ! the death of change, 

Since 'tis annihilation to estrange. 

The mystic sage of Hellas' pensive schools 

Well taught that change throughout all nature rules. 

The ceaseless tides of ocean ebb and flow. 

Flowers fade and flourish, summer melts the snow; 

Then why not Love? Still when affections range. 

How hard to bend our spirits to the change! 

The tide but ebbs to swell beyond the main ; 

The self-same rose, regenerate, blooms again. 

130 



The mists that from the melting mountains rise 

Again will fall in snowflakes from the skies; 

But what wise heart, once seared with passion's fire, 

Lights new love at the lost one's funeral pyre? 

Sooner its fondness for a happier past 

The dying flame will cherish to the last, 

And, loath to lose the pleasure, bear the pain, 

Even though but ghosts of pleasure now remain. 

Than wake the torch, which, though its beams be bright, 

At last must waste the spirit with its blight. 

Sooner by far that on the streamless plain 

The thirsty heart should languish in its pain 

Than strike the rock whose trickling stream will grow 

A 'whelming cataract as its currents flow. 

What mockery in the vows of love and trust 

She penned and, perjured, trampled in the dust! 

Endearing terms! — each now returns a ghoul 

To crouch above my perished peace of soul. 

So lately, too, her warmest vows were said, 

And now behold ! she whom I loved is dead ! 

As when on Adria's tantalizing sea 

The exile, parting from his Italy, 

Storm-tossed, again beheld his native shore, 

Where his forbidden feet could tread no more; 

So, long distressed with my tempestuous lot. 

Which drove me from creation's fairest spot, 

I glimpsed again my heart's denied delight, 

And then re-plunged into eternal night. 

She whom I loved is dead. A long farewell! 
Whether in heaven or earth our spirits dwell, 
We meet no more ! No longer now we scorn 

131 



The interdictions to the earthly born, 

Firm in the knowledge that beyond the stars 

Imprisoned hearts no longer beat their bars! 

Despairing thought, that those whom earth has riven 

Can not be unestranged at least in heaven ! 

Yet so it is! Another soon will claim 

The passions which for me no longer flame, 

And love will bless him with those sacred ties 

Which rest still undissevered in the skies. 

How faith and hope have made my breast to swell! — 

But they are vain now, so farewell! farewell! 

She whom I loved is dead! and I depart, 

Since from the peaceful hearthstone of my heart 

My household gods are rudely swept away, 

And there the demon, Torture, holds his sway. 

"Eat not the heart!" Ah, bitter food; and so. 

Since false Leucadia's plunge brings greater woe, 

I seek a land where cooler fountains play. 

And brighter skies of promise arch the day; 

Where golden fruit in vast profusion falls 

Even o'er the ruins of deserted halls; 

Where the sun-kissed cheek, which, if as fair as those 

That blessed a kindred clime I know of, glows 

With soothing beauty for the slighted heart. 

And makes the wounded soul forget its smart! 

Where Nature, stealing o'er the spirit throws 

Its soft serenity upon our woes, 

And heaven and earth, conspiring, may beguile 

The sullen lip again to speak or smile. 

To this far land, self-exiled, I shall stray, 

And force my spirit to be sometimes gay; 

132 



But, though forever from this drugged repose, 

Anguish anon must wake with rending throes, 

And half-forgotten days, as fresh and fair 

As skilled Arachne's web, revive despair; 

Still this wronged heart forgives each broken vow. 

And, loving once, can not but bless her now, 

Happy if for the exile she should shed 

One tear that he whom she loved not is dead. 



133 



The Parson 



"Answer a fool according to his folly, lest he be 
wise in his own conceit" — Proverbs xxvi:5. 

Grant me, ye Muses, whom we call divine, 
The fool — if fool there be — of all the Nine, 
Whose addled brain and vile, vindictive heart 
Befit her best to play the Parson's part — 
Grant me that she, for once, at least, preside, 
And teach my peaceful dictum to deride; 
For lo! her rival in un-Christian creeds, 
Stoled, for lost souls, in evangelic weeds, 
Sober and sad at sin's unbridled sway — 
Or that twelve hundred is his utmost pay — 
Has come, with all the ignorance and pride 
Which go to make mankind's immortal guide. 
Swearing, ye Muses, that we should assign 
To him alone the title of divine. 

His be the choice — a God-given right he claims — 
To feed with scorn resentment's feverish flames. 
Against the heart to set his spiteful heel 
As the last shift to make his hearers feel. 
To close the Book whose beauties lie too deep. 
And take the besom of the chimney-sweep ; 
His be the choice with worse than mocker's gall 

134 



The weak and wandering Christian to recall, 
To break the crozier and corrupt the host, 
Adapt the hymnal to a mauldin toast, 
Blaspheme in prayer and in unrighteous rage 
To tear the sacred Scriptures page by page, 
Enshrill the softness of the Sabbath bell 
And "pour the sweet milk of concord into Hell." 
His be the choice — ye lenient pastors hear. 
Lest ye be damned with those whose course ye steer- 
When spiritual sheep escape the guardian pen 
For greener grasses in the worldly glen, 
And, firm in their infatuating fault. 
Defy the tether and ignore the salt, 
To vow that where the soil of sin has smeared, 
Their fleece must be — O no, not washed, but sheared. 
Or grasp — with envj^ — their protecting coat. 
And, singing "Agnus Dei!" cut their throat. 
Mine be it the redeemer to redeem, 
And soothe him with "an honest bard's esteem." 



Scorning persuasive love's awakening spell. 

This new Prometheus steals his fire from Hell, 

And claims — himself a mocker of restraints — 

To curse rebellious sinners into saints. 

What though the law which he presumes to plead 

On human charity has based its creed. 

Does he "rejoice with those who do rejoice" 

And "with the weeping" lift his "weeping" voice? 

What though to "love thy neighbor" be esteemed 

The surest hostage of the unredeemed. 

Does he — vile harlot of the sacred pale — 

135 



Give wine or wormwood to the faint and frail? 

Yes, misery is the mulct we pay for breath, 

And life itself the sorrier name for death. 

"The Lord thy God," — thus is the wonder billed, 

"Will send a wild ass." It has been fulfilled. 

Strong are his heels and wide his caudal sway, 

Long are his ears and thunder-lunged his bray, — 

Not formed for speed, he is, but who can find 

All virtues in one donkey hide combined? 

See how he prances in self-conscious pride. 

Rolls his big eyes and bids some Balaam ride. 

Whinnies salvation ; in lugubrious brays 

Presumes to sing his "Great Creator's praise!" 

See how his grimed, unholy hoofs invade 

The sacred chancel, bold and undismayed! 

He thinks the incense and the seraphim, 

The songs and genuflections are for him. 

The Lord has sent him: yes; thus much, with ease. 

The stupid ass — er, pardon, — Parson sees; 

But as he sends the simoon or the bise, 

A famine or a justice of the peace; 

Has sent him as he sends our monthly bills. 

Our country cousins or our liver pills. 

To purge us of our worldly dross for heaven, 

And give our pan-cake souls their proper leaven ; — 

Not by the means of precept and example, 

Though even for this his ass-ship, sure, is ample. 

But that we may with horror and amaze 

Behold what pranks creation sometimes plays. 

And, with rebellious, godless lips struck dumb. 

Make haste to turn "and flee the wrath to come." 

And are there none of all the boastful crowd 

136 



Who shake their fists in rage and swear so loud 

Will dare to tame him? He is strong enow, 

And, though he can not reap nor sow, may plow! 

Thus sings the bard with reason but profanity: 

"Ecclesiates said that 'All is vanity,' 

Most modern preachers say the same, or show it." 

None dare deny the judgment of the poet. 

But can ye blame him that his pastoral pride 

Rebelled to see his unctions unapplied? 

To see cold benches or a colder look. 

Which never melted till he closed the Book? 

Whose choler would not rise to thus behold 

So many thankless sheep within the fold? 

Dull prayers and stupid sermons he had spawned, 

While half the congregation slept or yawned. 

Until, despairing from his shallow brain. 

Where force and logic had been wooed in vain. 

To make one temperate, rational appeal 

To hearts which through convicted judgment feel; 

Despairing from his sterile soul to build 

The fabric of a fancy, or to gild 

Eternal laws with such supernal dyes 

As could not but engage aesthetic eyes; 

Despairing to acquire the ripened yields 

Which grow in information's fertile fields — 

Although we have it upon good report 

That he attended once a Justice court, 

And from a peddler even learned to speak 

The alphabet, — a part, I'm sure — in Greek; 

Despairing — ah! were ignorance a crime 

The hangman would have spared this need for rhyme 

To call up Samuels from the tomb of mind, 

137 



With prophet-wfsdom to instruct mankind, 

This maniac Moslem, with horrific frown. 

Grasps his drawn sword and throws the Koran down. 

Cries "Allah acbar!" and by Khaled swears 

He'll have our blood unless we say our prayers. 

Immortal spirits of the great and wise 

Who look upon us from cerulean skies! 

Shades of all dramatists who intervene 

From crude Euripides to smooth Racine; 

All ye departed who have dared recite 

The rhapsodies ye did, or did not, write! 

Ghost of Melpomene, whom farce has slain, 

Thalia, who died from softening of the brain ! 

Attend, attend, ye Thespian spectres, all. 

And see the fabric ye have builded, fall ! 

When Drama flourished in its Golden Age, 

And Talma, Rachel, had not left the stage, 

When taste was delicate and judgment just. 

And skill to candor might confide its trust. 

If pens mismirrored Nature, tortured art. 

Or blundering Bottoms whined their murdered part. 

It was the privilege of those who paid 

To "damn" (I quote) the play or those who played; 

But now a fierce, illiberal bigot's rage 

May damn all actors and each printed page. 

Thou, too, Terpsichore, he has dared assail — 
If "words were things" his quarrel would prevail — 
And with the lashings of envenomed wrath 
Would drive the sylphs of pleasure from his path. 
Thy slippered feet will but more freely fly 

138 



To that perdition which is now too nigh; 

Thy gauzy gowns and mildly melting smiles 

Are but the surest of the Devil's wiles. 

Across the floor who dares to waltz — or limp — 

Is but a sensual roue or a pimp. 

We will not say — for satire's every thrust 

Beyond all peradventure should be just — 

That 'gainst delights where he must not engage 

His club-foot calling piques his envious rage; 

For it may be — and truth must be respected — 

That on vain life so long he has reflected, 

Read Proverbs and the Preacher, St. Augustine, 

Jerome, and all the other saints we trust in. 

That he cares nothing for the frilled and f rocked : — 

Of course he would be welcome if he knocked ! 

And thou, offending power of the press — 

Which would not print his sermons! — come, confess. 

Is not thine influence or thy silence sold 

For veiled preferment or insidious gold? 

Hast thou not been, through all the long array 

Of names from Caxton to the present day. 

The venal agent of corruption, fraud 

And shame — especially when thy mind was broad? 

What fund was ever due to thy appeal? 

Against what serpent ever set thy heel? 

Who ever knew thee, when distraction reigned. 

And human rights and feelings were disdained. 

To bid the wild, tumultuous ravings cease. 

Or spread thy guardian wings and plead for peace? 

Never! — at least such journalistic freaks 

Are not the gratis sheets the Parson takes. 

139 



Melodious measures whose eternal spring 

Flows from that God who bade the planets sing; 

Sweet soul of concord which assumed its sway 

When morning broke and chaos rolled away; 

Employment of the angels, pledge of peace, 

The voice of prayer, the fettered heart's release. 

Shall thy proud harp, which pleased our Maker's ear, 

Which David strung and Saul rejoiced to hear, 

Which Miriam woke, and old Isaiah attuned. 

Be thus ignobly censured and buffooned? 

Shall thy soft cadence and celestial tone 

Become the mockery of a soulless drone? 

I know, dear harp! that feeble hands like mine 

Can never fire thee with a touch divine. 

Groping in darkness through a world of care, 

And stung by lips which might have moved with prayer; 

Struck by the hand assigned to raise and guide. 

Scorned in ambition and enraged in pride, 

I know my minstrel fingers strike amiss, 

But shalt thou be, dear harp, reviled for this? 

And who is he, the sycophantic fool. 

Who dares impugn the whole poetic school? 

His mossy brain, where, should an idea stray, 

'Twould die from loneliness or damp decay, 

His heart whose passions — well, we'll let that go, 

With much besides even satire should not show. 

So stop, my rhyme, and let his ass-ship bray, 
Because I wrote this on the Sabbath day. 



140 



The Pettifogger 



"No choice was left his feelings or his pride 
Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died." 

— Don Juan. 

Come, marshalled wrath! come, thou sulphuric fire, 
With which the bard, offended, vents his ire. 
And thence let righteous retribution draw 
To blast this dull Boeotian of the law. 
God of the doughty deeds we leave undone, 
God of the battles we have never won, 
Thou who presidest o'er the bloody plain 
Which blustering bravery fills with fancied slain. 
Aid me to sing the Uncle Toby wars 
Of this blear-eyed, unwounded son of Mars 
Who, with his puppet army, all alone, 
Fights and achieves — no praises but his own. 

There was a time, so dim traditions say. 
When dignity and law held mutual sway, 
When those aspiring to that high estate 
Which shields the feeble and restrains the great 
Were conscious of its majesty, and sought 
To store the studious hours with ripened thought, 
To train the reason and instruct the tongue — 
For eloquence was something more than lung, — 

141 



Slow up the Alps of erudition crept 

And quaffed the fluent fountains whence they leapt. 

Vast grew their minds, but not so vast their pride, 

For lengthening leagues rose up at every stride, 

And the most dazzling eminence, attained, 

Still left infinitude itself ungained. 

But, O the times and manners! now behold 

What idiot advocates are here enrolled. 

With names recorded high — in self esteem — 

And troups of wealthy clients — when they dream — 

While deep instruction and profound disputes, 

Are, as in Aesop's fables, left to brutes. 

Let fancy paint this prince of legal quacks — 

The reader knows whate'er the portrait lacks. 

Lend me the pencil of the child of art 

Whose special province fits him for the part. 

Murillo, Reynolds, Titian? No; I fear 

The work is better suited to Landseer. 

Conceive a being with an ambling gait. 

Thick lips, thick tongue, but vastly thicker pate, 

With eyes as humid as his talks are dry. 

At which the gamins laugh and nurslings cry. 

Expressionless in countenance, or worse, 

Distorted like a poetaster's verse; 

Serving alone to show that vulgar hearts 

Are always thus betrayed by outward parts ; 

In short — and yet by far less short than just — 

An animated statue of disgust. 

Behold him rise — in his profession ? No ; 

But in the court room, with obtrusive show. 

Waving his awkward mindmill arms around, 

142 



And stamping to give force where none is found. 

What pleadings then we hear! ye gods of grace !- 

Such as adorned his beatific face — 

How the round periods, bold hyperboles, 

Apt metaphors and wild antitheses 

Jostle each other down the dusty road 

Along which creaks his dreary mental load, 

While judge and jury slumber where they sit. 

Because his tongue has garnisheed his wit. 

LeSage's doctor in a vision saw 

It made the king's uncompromising law 

That every quack attend his victim's bier, 

And for the life he took bestow a tear. 

In mercy spare our times this dire decree; 

There'd be no sleep from Dan to Behring sea; 

But leave our lawyer to the ghostly revel 

Of all his clients, come back from the devil. 

His conscience (given perhaps in reason's stead )- 

But then nil nisi honum of the dead. 

While fattening fools on fulsome flattery feed, 
He takes his portion as a rightful meed, 
Too dull to see with what a poor pretense 
The people are amused at his expense; 
While, as when truant Jocko paints his face. 
And thinks the motley daub a mark of grace. 
He wrestles with conclusions in the law 
Which his poor draught-horse logic can not draw, 
And smiles in pride, because his listeners smile 
"To see the mile-stone dancing with the mile." 
Ah, pitying heaven! from thine abundant store 

143 



Grant him enough of wisdom, if no more, 

To see, what all beside have seen, alas! — 

How ably he can make himself an ass. 

Can make himself so? Stop, for you must know 

That nature did it for him long ago. 

Take the tin-cup of thy contracted mind, 

If it, brave barrister, even thou can'st find. 

And drink of learning with as great good will 

As if Pieria were a mountain-still ; 

But, lest the rhetoric doctors come to plague you, 

Be careful of the tadpoles and the ague. 

While wretched Reason rubs her tearful eyes 

And poor, scorned Judgment heaves most mournful sighs, 

While Wisdom groans beneath the brutal heel 

Which Folly spikes with hobs of heartless steel; 

While Cassius Cultivation's hungry look 

Bespeaks the shattered globe, the rifled book; — 

Conditions so untempered, times so crude 

INlust needs produce us a repulsive brood 

Who think that pride is princely, boasting brave, 

And all may be sagacious who are grave; 

But never, never did the wildest mind 

In its supreme delirium think to find 

Pride so superb to wit so sterile joined 

As in this shilling which Reproach has coined — 

"A thinking rose," if Pascal wills, but one 

Which cankered long before it saw the sun. 

The law is vast and varied, dull and deep, 
And loves to see its catechumens creep. 
Whoever quarries in its niggard mine 

144 



Waits long to see the finished fabric shine. 

The mother hand which wipes away our tears, 

Strong to avenge our wrongs or calm our fears, 

Its codes are covered on each mellow page 

With all the dust and dignity of age. 

Some, drawn in fire, have been repealed in flood. 

Some blotted out, as they were writ, in blood. 

From stern Lycurgus and the ancient days 

Which Briton's sons have sung in labored la3's. 

From murderer Moses who produced the bill 

Which made it first a felony to kill, 

(Alas! how easy do we break his Seventh 

By slightly overkeeping the Eleventh;) 

From Solon, Solomon, and all the wise 

Which jurisprudence' ample lists comprise, 

Down to the legislators who, of late, 

Must, Philip-like, so certain charges state, 

Get drunk to legislate — perhaps because 

Inebriate people need inebriate laws; — 

How vast the field, how flowerless and stern 

For blunt perceptions to attempt to turn, 

And yet this brainless barrister presumes 

To measure tongues with Tully, plead with Toombs. 

He spits upon Justinian's code, although 

The Institutes he might do well to know. 

Then turns, and, with his supercilious frown. 

Bids the plebeian's tame Twelve Tables down ; 

In short, a law unto himself, howe'er 

Unconstitutional he may appear, 

Who, undisturbed by codes or common sense, 

Get Caesar's Commentaries mixed with Kent's. 

Will you permit a rhymester to suggest 

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What you yourself have, doubtless, oft confessed — 
Although you be not of the plastic ilk 
Who "take suggestion as the cat laps milk" — 
Will you permit, since Locke, as you recall, 
Says broad minds profit by the views of all, — 
And might have added that with more delight 
Do those who have no views their views recite, — 
Will you allow — now, pray, what I commend 
Regard not as intended to offend. 
For whatsoe'er be thine, of course I know 
That my poor mind and heart are far below — 
Allow me then to say, untutored daw, 
'Tis time you learned to talk or ceased to caw? 

Come, Vulcan of vernaculars, attend, 

Syllabic Cyclops, wheresoever denned. 

And fashion me the surest dart to reach 

The parasite of peace, the legal leech. 

Who sowed the thistles in the sweet parterre. 

Broke down the rustic gate that opened there. 

Destroyed the barn-yard trough, the mulberry shade, 

And all the haunts where gathering farm-boys played? 

Who hurled the neat, though uncarved columns down, 

And broke the crevice in the roof of brown? 

Who pulled the corn untasseled, made his wine 

From the rich juices of the living vine. 

Spread desolation o'er the rolling fields. 

And withered back the earth's spontaneous yields? 

He, the exacting instrument of shame 

Who hatched the written curse he calls a claim. 

Abetting thievery, he obtains relief 

Of conscience by unburdening the thief. 

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There is a chaplet for the stern of heart, 

The cubs who lap wild milk and stand apart, 

The brown and brawny who, with tongues of steel, 

Submit and arbitrate their bold appeal. 

There is a sweet Valhalla for the brave 

Who, calm in conscious glory, greet the grave. 

Sedition, sack, even treason's darkening shame. 

Like grimy faggots, feed a rainbow flame, 

And pitying tears from man's admiring eye 

Blot out all blemish when the daring die. 

But not the harpies roaming Hell unreined, 

Not all the bolts in Heaven's vast armory chained, 

The plague, the flood, the famine and the flame 

Nor all the ills affliction's self could name. 

Are fierce enough to blast the legal knave 

Who brings destruction but to rob the grave. 

Renown, however sordid she has been, 

Whatever those least worthy yet may win. 

Awakens her dead conscience and recoils. 

Spurns the red hand, repudiates the spoils. 

And, proudly unsuborned, proclaims: "Know thou. 

There are no laurels for a branded brow." 

I'm done, my pettifogger: champ the bit, 
Or win from libel what you can't from wit; 
Bring suit (or have it brought) against my verse. 
For, God knows, no one could need judgment worse. 
I'd wish thee damned; but no! to such a breed 
The devil himself has made a quit-claim deed. 



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SEP 18 1905 



